


a lively mating jig

by Azzandra



Series: Traverse [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Language Barrier, M/M, Mixed Alien Society, Quadrant Confusion, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Karkat and Dave can't understand each other, but things still work out. Kind of.</p><p>(You don't need to read the first fic in the series to understand this one.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's late in the morning when you are trolled by Tavros.

AT: oH, yOU'RE ONLINE, 

AT: gOOD, I WAS HOPING YOU WOULD BE, eVEN THOUGH IT'S QUITE LATE,

AT: aLTHOUGH MAYBE YOU'VE SWITCHED, tO A MORE DIURNAL SCHEDULE, sINCE ARRIVING TO THIS PLANET,

AT: aS THAT IS A THING MANY TROLLS HAVE DONE,

CG: IF YOU'RE SO CONCERNED ABOUT MY SLEEP SCHEDULE, YOU SHOULD GET TO THE FUCKING POINT SO I CAN ACTUALLY GET AROUND TO USING MY RECUPERACOON SOMETIME THIS SOLAR REVOLUTION. 

CG: DID YOU WANT SOMETHING IN PARTICULAR OR ARE YOU AIMING YOUR MUSINGS ABOUT THE LIFESTYLE CHOICES OF ALTERNIAN IMMIGRANTS TOWARDS THE NEAREST UNFORTUNATE SOUL?

AT: oH, tHERE YOU ARE, 

AT: yES, i'VE CONTACTED YOU FOR A VERY GOOD REASON,

AT: aND I THINK THAT YOU SHOULD, gIVE MY PROPOSAL DUE CONSIDERATION, bEFORE DISMISSING IT OUT OF HAND,,,

AT: nOT THAT YOU WOULD NECESSARILY, dO THAT, aS YOU ARE GENERALLY SPEAKING A VERY, rELIABLE AND GENEROUS FRIEND,

CG: WOW, STARTING WITH FLATTERY, THAT'S SURE TO CONVINCE ME THAT YOU'RE NOT GOING TO ASK ME TO DO ANYTHING ONEROUS.

AT: iF YOU'RE BEING SARCASTIC, wHICH DOESN'T COME ACROSS VERY WELL OVER THE INTERNET, aND I SUSPECT YOU ARE, bECAUSE YOU EMPLOY SARCASM VERY OFTEN, gENERALLY SPEAKING, tHEN I SHOULD HASTEN TO ADD, tHAT THE THINGS I AM SAYING ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER, aRE TRUE, wHETHER OR NOT I REQUIRE ANY FAVORS, aND YOU SHOULD TAKE THEM AS SUCH, rEGARDLESS OF WHATEVER ELSE, wILL TRANSPIRE DURING THIS CONVERSATION,,,

CG: WOW, TERRIFIC. SO AFTER THIS GUT-SHUDDERINGLY PATHETIC ATTEMPT AT COMMUNICATION PASSES, I WILL BE LEFT WITH THE KNOWLEDGE THAT I'M THE SUCKER EVERYBODY KNOWS TO HIT UP FOR FAVORS.

AT: hAVE i, iN THE PAST, eVER ASKED FOR ANYTHING FROM YOU, wITHOUT OFFERING SOMETHING IN RETURN, aT A FUTURE DATE?

CG: … 

CG: SHIT, I GUESS NOT.

CG: OKAY, WHATEVER. WHAT DO YOU NEED?

AT: aS YOU MIGHT, hAVE HEARD, mY MOIRAIL IS COMING, tO VISIT, }:)

CG: I THINK EVERYBODY FROM HERE TO THE FUCKING VOID BETWEEN GALAXIES KNOWS THAT, NUMBNUTS. YOU PRACTICALLY HAVE TINY CARTOON DIAMONDS FLOATING AROUND YOU.

AT: yES, wELL, I HAVEN'T SEEN HER, fOR A PRETTY LONG TIME, 

AT: aND ALTHOUGH WE KEEP IN THOUCH, tHROUGH THE SPACENET, iT REALLY ISN'T THE SAME, aS ACTUALLY SPENDING TIME TOGETHER, pHYSICALLY SPEAKING,,,

AT: nOT TO DISCOUNT, lONG-DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS, bUT,,,

CG: YOU WANT SOME QUALITY PILE TIME TOGETHER. 

CG: NO, I GET IT.

AT: sO IT IS UNDERSTANDABLE THAT I AM A BIT, eXCITED FOR THIS VISIT,

CG: SO WHAT'S THE PROBLEM?

AT: sHE IS BRINGING ALONG, hER HUMAN BROTHER,

CG: IS A HUMAN BROTHER ONE OF THOSE WEIRD MAMMALIAN GENETIC RELATIONSHIPS?

AT: eXACTLY THAT, yES, 

AT: tHEY WERE BORN, iN THE SAME LITTER,

AT: aLTHOUGH HUMANS ARE USUALLY BORN, oNE AT A TIME, sO LITTER MIGHT BE THE WRONG WORD FOR IT, bUT THEY WERE BOTH BORN AT THE SAME TIME, sO THEY'RE AN EXCEPTION TO THAT RULE,

CG: UGH, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ANY DETAILS ABOUT THEIR DISGUSTING REPRODUCTIVE PRACTICES. JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO TO THIS GUY.

AT: nOTHING, oR AT LEAST, nOTHING BAD,,,

AT: rOSE WANTS SOMEONE, tO KEEP HIM OUT OF TROUBLE, fOR THE DURATION OF THE VISIT, aND ALSO SO SHE AND i WILL HAVE SOME PRIVACY, aLSO FOR THE DURATION,

AT: aND I THOUGHT, tHAT YOU'RE A FAIRLY RESPONSIBLE, iNDIVIDUAL,

AT: aND ALSO MY FRIEND,

AT: aND SOMEONE WHO CAN BE TRUSTED, wITH THIS PERSON MY MOIRAIL, cARES ABOUT,

CG: ARE YOU IMPLYING THAT I'M TOO SOFT TO CULL SOME ANNOYING HUMAN I DON'T KNOW?

AT: i WAS IMPLYING, tHAT YOU WOULD NEVER DO ANYTHING, tHAT WOULD CAUSE CONFLICT, bETWEEN TWO MOIRAILS, sEEING AS YOU HAVE STRONG FEELINGS ABOUT QUADRANTS, aND SERENDIPITY, aS THEY PERTAIN TO EVERYONE AROUND YOU,

Your jaw clenches at these words. Your own quadrants are a barren wasteland. If you were any other troll, Tavros would worry that you _would_ try something, out of envy, even if you're not directly angling for his pale quadrant. As things stand, though, he's right. You are soft, and you feel your bloodpusher clench every time you hear Tavros talk about his moirail with that faraway look on his face.

AT: aND ALSO, yOU NEVER KNOW, yOU MIGHT EVEN ENJOY dAVE'S COMPANY, };D

You scoff. Not likely.

But yeah, okay. How bad can this be?

*

Worse than you thought, actually.

Tavros becomes increasingly insufferable as the date of Rose's arrival approaches, and if you didn't find the way he managed to namedrop his moirail in every conversation a bit sweet, you'd have bashed in your own spongecase long ago, just to make the agony stop.

You're not jealous, Tavros is just obnoxious.

On the evening of her arrival, you are both at the spaceport at the first dimming of twilight, because Tavros is a mess of nerves and impatience. You're entirely too early, and you spend three hours eating bad spaceport junk food and talking about the achingly few things you have in common.

The two of you loiter by the gate when passengers start filing out. Tavros rises to his tiptoes to look over the crowd, despite the fact that he is taller than pretty much everyone in the spaceport. You feel a bit resentful towards him sometimes, because he grew up into such a behemoth of a troll. You don't often see lowbloods reach these dimensions, and you'd be lying to yourself if you didn't admit that you sometimes wish it was you instead.

The crowd has thinned considerably by the time Tavros spots Rose and starts waving his arm. He smiles so widely you expect the top of his head to split and slide off like a gory clown show in a horror B-movie.

You get your first look at Rose, who you know only by reputation, and you can't decide if you're surprised or disappointed. From Tavros's stories, you'd imagined someone more akin to an aloof highblood, a haughty and aristocratic creature, dispensing sarcastic remarks and making each sentence falling out of her mouth sound like an order. But she looks harmless, instead. No sharp corners. Hornless, clawless, human-soft. Not very tall even for a human, but heavyset. Bright yellow hair and brown skin. Highblood eyes, an incongruous shade of purple. She walks at an unhurried pace, she smiles without showing her teeth, and she acts untouchable in a way that makes alarms sound off dimly in your head.

You're not sure what to make of her, beyond the unsettling feelings she inspires, so you look to her side.

That's when you see Dave Strider for the first time, slinking after his sister. If Rose confuses you, then Dave is even more of a study in human peculiarity. He resembles his sister in only the broadest strokes; he has the same golden-brown complexion, the same odd air of carelessness about him, but he's taller and leaner than her, and he slouches down to meet Rose's height. If he were troll, it would be a gesture of submissiveness, but with humans, you don't know how to interpret it. You don't know how to interpret a lot of things, actually. Dave hides his eyes behind a pair of fugly shades, and not being able to see where he's looking is making your sickle hand itch.

“We were unfortunately delayed by customs,” Rose explains. Her Alternian is mushy-sounding, but better than most humans can manage. “Dave felt the need to declare a great number of things, none of them being his sword.”

Dave indeed has a sword strapped to his back. You can only see the hilt peeking over his shoulder, and you begrudgingly approve of his caution, but he loses points for having both arms full with luggage. Rose only has a weird black case in her hand.

Tavros picks Rose up in a hug—she looks even smaller compared to him—and Dave tenses. He watches them like a hawk until Tavros puts her back down. You give him a stern look, hoping to convey just how fucking not alright it is to act like that towards someone else's moirail (in public, no less!), but he's not even looking at you. Douche.

“And you must be Karkat,” Rose says, turning towards you.

She looks you up and down with an appraising gleam in her eye. The way she smiles at the end makes you feel like you should be relieved you passed the inspection, but that's absurd.

“It is such a relief,” she says, her tone deferential, “that you would sacrifice your time and energy to help keep Dave out of trouble.”

You mumble something in return.

She turns and says something to Dave in their own language, and you hear your name spoken. Dave looks perplexed at first, and then annoyed. He says something back, and they have a few more exchanges; Dave agitated, Rose smiling serenely.

“Uh, Rose,” Tavros says slowly, “you didn't mention he didn't speak Alternian.”

“He doesn't speak Alternian?” you repeat.

“Yes, that is, what I said, and why I said it,” Tavros says. “Rose...”

“It will be no trouble at all. Traverse is quite cosmopolitan, is it not?”

“Yes, but, uh... Karkat isn't?” Tavros replies, taken aback.

“Hm, yes, I see how that could pose a problem,” she says, in a way that suggests that she sees no problem at all. “I suppose they will have to be quick studies.”

“Great, and what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” you interject. “Point and grunt?”

“There, see? You're already figuring things out,” Rose says, delighted. “Now help Dave with the luggage. I'm sure he already knows how to say 'thank you' in Alternian.”

You grind your teeth, but she gives you that unflappable smile of hers and it makes you stop just short of protesting.

Dave, on the other hand, launches into a long and peeved rant that you suspect you agree with. Rose brushes him off with a condescending nod and a few words. Dave shuts his mouth, but fumes quietly. You feel a pang of camaraderie with the put-upon human, even though you don't really want to.

*

Rose and Tavros walk ahead, talking rapidly, lost in their own little world. You and Dave trail behind, carrying luggage that you suspect belongs mostly to Rose.

“They're not even talking about anything interesting,” you say to Dave. The bits that you overhear are all esoteric discussions about some popular fantasy novel they both read. “I only _wish_ I couldn't understand that inane prattle.”

Dave looks at you—you can see the vague outline of his eyes through the shades—and gives a snort. He says something in his native language (English, you think. That's the one a lot of humans speak).

“I don't understand a damn thing you're saying,” you mutter, before you realize that that's probably what he was saying _to you_. “God dammit,” you add with feeling.

The rest of the way to the hotel, you take the train, and while Rose and Tavros manage to snag three seats all to themselves, you and Dave end up standing, holding onto the same pole. Dave takes out a communication device and fiddles with it. You stare at the screen full of unintelligible letters and wonder how the hell you got yourself into this mess.

*

After you leave the hotel where Rose and Dave are staying, Tavros pulls you to the side of the street with a grave look in his eyes.

“I'm sorry for the difficulty Rose has put you in,” he says, “and I'm sorry for, my role in it.”

“Yeah, no fucking kidding,” you mutter, even though you don't really blame him.

“She didn't mention, when we talked, that she was upset with her brother, but that has, shall we say, become obvious in retrospect,” Tavros says. “She indicated that she did not, exactly, want to take him along, but that he insisted. I think that this is her way of, punishing him, I suppose.”

You rub the bridge of your nose in annoyance.

“What, she couldn't just tell him to stay the fuck put?” you growl. “Get away while he was asleep? Handcuff him to a railing? She dragged him half across the galaxy just to make a point?”

“I think this is what the humans call, being passive aggressive,” Tavros remarks, “seeing as direct aggression, is somewhat frowned upon in their society.”

“Fucking aliens and their stupid cultural norms.”

“I will understand if you don't want to be involved anymore, knowing what you know now, about the situation...”

“So you're giving me an out,” you say dryly.

“Do you not want an out?”

You're not sure, truth be told. Dave really does seem like trouble to you, but more for Tavros and Rose than anyone else. Tavros, for all his faults, doesn't really deserve that.

“I don't even know yet,” you admit. “You could at least let me try douche-wrangling for a day before you automatically assume I'd fail at it and send me off with my tail between my legs.”

Tavros nods uncertainly.

“Okay, yes, what you're saying is fair,” he says. “If you really want to.”

“I'm not a quitter,” you say.

“I believe you.”

“I'm not just going to give up because something seems too hard.”

“Yes, I know you wouldn't do that.”

You're talking about Dave, of course. If Tavros gives you a platonically pitying look and thinks this is about how anything else, then he's completely off base.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be more character stuff, but the expositiony bits just kinda ballooned, so I guess either this is going to be 4 chapters instead of 3, or the third chapter is going to be megahuge.
> 
> Also, this seems like a good place to mention that an alternate name I considered for this fic was "my postillion has been struck by lightning", until I decided on something more Homestuck-specific.

Traverse has about as many names as species living on it. And that's only roughly speaking, because while some species have two or three names for the planet and can't really agree on one, when you first set off for this place, the travel information had it listed only by its coordinates. Knowing the Alternian bureaucracy as well as you unfortunately do, they probably still haven't gotten around to naming it properly.

Not that it's been very long since Traverse's days as an obscure Alternian military outpost. The city seems to have sprung up overnight, emerging from the corpse of the dinky little town that preceded it to turn into a vibrant, diverse metropolis bent on violating every building code in the galaxy. A dozen alien species, living together and getting in each other's way, on a planet where just enough conditions are met for everyone's continued survival, if not for their comfort.

And if someone took every name Traverse was called and looked over this list with a critical eye, they'd discover a theme emerging. Whether the humans call it 'Pitstop' or the riggan call it 'Passing Point' or the yvrains call it 'mingled breaths of migrant souls through the uncaring void', because yvrains lack any fucking restraint like that, the general gist of it is that Traverse sees a lot of traffic.

And that means even a mutant outcast to live unnoticed and unhindered.

*

It's late the next day when Tavros trolls you and asks that you come to the hotel right away, because he and Rose want to go do a 'tHING' and Dave seems intent on inviting himself along.

He's lucky you're already awake, because you've just finished editing your review of “In Which and Enterprising Greenblood, Through A Series Of Events Involving Enchanted Legumes, Must Cull A Subspecies Of Trolls Of Unusual Size For The Glory Of The Empress” etc. etc. etc., and you're in the process of posting it to your blog.

You shower and get dressed as quickly as you can, and you refresh the page before you leave. No comments yet, you'll have to check on it when you come back.

You almost get lost on the way to the hotel, because Traverse was voted as “Planet with Most Confusing Public Transportation” three years running by Interspecial Magazine, and it's a title it lives up to. It frustrates you how locals take perverse pride in this fact, like it's an accomplishment and not symptomatic of the profound stupidity which afflicts the mass transit system.

When you walk into the hotel bar, you're actually surprised to see Dave and Rose sitting at the counter together and Tavros off to the side like he is the interloper.

“There you are,” Rose says as she sees you. “I was just explaining to Dave how you _absolutely insist_ on showing him the city today.” She sounds annoyed, though it's hard to tell without the subvocal clicks you'd normally be hearing from a troll.

“Right, I'm the one insisting,” you snort, but you stop yourself when you spot Tavros in the corner of your eye, shifting in embarrassment. “Yeah, okay, let's go for a walk,” you say in Dave's direction.

Dave is bent on making things difficult, however. He slouches down in his seat, one elbow on the counter and the other arm casually at his side. He has the sword strapped to his back again, and you recognize the position of his arm, relaxed but ready to draw. He doesn't look like he's willing to go anywhere with you.

Rose slips off the stool, and Dave makes a move to follow, but you put yourself between him and her.

Rose waves over her shoulder and leaves without looking back, Tavros sheepishly trailing after her.

There's a moment of panic across Dave's face as he realizes she's well and truly leaving. He rises to his feet, moving tense and slow, like he's hurrying but trying not to, but you move to block Rose and Tavros from view.

This draws Dave's attention to you, which is good, but you're not armed, which is marginally less good. You put on the blankest, most non-confrontational expression you can and steady your breathing.

Dave attempts to stare you down for a few moments, but you remain unmoved. He gives up then, his shoulders relaxing, his arms hanging at his sides. He shakes his head and mutters something, then climbs back on his stool.

Well, okay. Wasting time in a tacky hotel bar with a petulant alien is not an appealing prospect, but it's more palatable than a sword fight in which only one participant has a sword, especially if the one doing the not-sword-having is you. You take Rose's vacated seat.

There's a drinks menu in front of you and you pick it up just out of curiosity, but the prices are so outrageous that even if you had any inclination towards alcohol, you still wouldn't subject yourself to this kind of highway robbery. Your eyes nearly boggle when you get to the bottom of the menu, where the most expensive drink is listed as 'Bosani Water – Freshly Squeezed'.

“Are you fucking kidding me here?” you growl at the bosani bartender. “How is six hundred credits a reasonable price to ask for a glass of your bodily excretions?”

The bosani turns six of its twenty-four eyestalks towards you, and then, with a deliberate squirt of its left mammary, fills a tall glass full of clear yellow-tinted liquid. It puts the glass in front of you and blinks in challenge.

You recoil and hiss. The bartender blinks all of its eyes in rapid succession, because bosani don't have mouths in the traditional sense and this is their equivalent of uproarious laughter.

Dave lets out a short, startled chuckle. He stops himself when you look at him, and schools his features into a more neutral expression. The bartender turns to Dave and wiggles its eye stalks, and then it moves the glass of Bosani Water towards Dave.

Dave recoils as well, nose wrinkling in disgust. This time you laugh. Dave doesn't like that, apparently, because he looks right at you—the light is dim enough and he's close enough that you can see right through his shades that he's aggressively making making eye contact with you—and takes the glass, downing the entire thing in several long gulps.

When he's done, he puts the glass down with a smug look on his face.

“You've just downed a glass of glorified alien piss,” you tell him, even though he doesn't understand, “that's not something you should be proud of.”

He says something and smirks. The bosani bartender blinks its eyestalks again.

You get the feeling that Dave just scored a point over you.

*

On the way out you pass the hotel gift shop. There's an entire rack full of little booklets and you find yourself stopping there and looking over the titles.

It takes you only a few moments to find the English phrasebook and you show it to Dave when you do. By the face Dave makes, he's beating himself up for not thinking about it first.

Point goes to you this time.

But then as Dave picks up a corresponding Alternian phrasebook and leafs through it, you berate yourself for trying to keep score. It's pointless and a bit pathetic.

He tries to read out loud one of the greeting from the book and his accent is so terrible that at first you think he's choking. You don't laugh in his face, and later, when you make your own stumbling attempt at English, he returns the courtesy.

*

Between the two of you, there are only a few words and short phrases you already knew in each other's language. Yes. No. Hello. Goodbye. Where is the bathroom. Fuck you, asshole. Inexplicably, that last one isn't covered by either of your phrasebooks. You checked.

You've heard (both from the bragging of reformists and the griping of conservatives) that after you left Alternia, standard schoolfeeding started including some basics in a few commonly used alien languages. You wouldn't know, all the foreign shit you're familiar with is the stuff you've picked up by living in Traverse for the past two sweeps. Mostly you've learned to swear in about half a dozen languages, but you're pretty good with Traversian pidgin. It's not a pretty language, but it does the job, and it helps that much of its vocabulary comes from Alternian. You couldn't learn all the languages in use around Traverse if you tried, so with most you don't even bother.

That might be why you're initially confused when, on the way to the train station, you cross paths with a flock of riggan. They're screeching and blowing on horns, and you assume that it's some sort of riot, but you recall that it's that time of the solar revolution again, when they celebrate the halfway point of the cold season on their home planet.

Dave tenses and looks towards you for some sort of cue. You roll your eyes, because other than making a public nuisance of themselves, the riggan aren't outright hostile to aliens. Dave gets the hint.

The street is wide enough that the revelers, numbering somewhere in the high double digits, can pass unimpeded. You pull Dave to the side to observe without getting trampled, but one riggan—xir plume is still brown, so probably a young adolescent—breaks away and runs up to the two of you. Xe blows a horn right in Dave's face, in one drawn-out, meandering trill.

You watch Dave closely, but he doesn't outwardly react to this impromptu music show. The young riggan chitters, visibly annoyed, but then xe turns towards you and blows xir horn again, this time playing a higher-pitched and more obnoxious tune.

You growl, and the riggan chortles, delighted, then runs off to rejoin the flock.

Dave turns to you and raises an eyebrow. You shrug. Most of the flock has passed you by already, but a few adults from the tail end of it turn around and gesture for you to follow.

They squawk more insistently when you don't immediately run after them, and Dave keeps looking from you to the flock.

“No,” you say, making sure to enunciate.

Dave scowls and folds his arm like a pouty wriggler just told by his lusus to cut his hunt short.

“Why would you even want to go to a riggan celebration?” you say. “Those always end with all the participants trying to hit each other with sticks.”

Which isn't much of an exaggeration. For all that trolls are accused of being bloodthirsty, the riggan really take the cake in the pointless bouts of violence category. Bunch of creepy feathery assholes. All the constructive things they could be doing if they just channeled that energy, and they won't even join Traverse's police force because of their bullshit 'moral objections'. How the fuck does that even make rational sense, you would huffily ask someone if there was anyone around to ask, but the only one around is Dave, so you might as well converse with a wall.

Speaking of which, Dave looks ready to take off after the riggan. You growl in warning, _don't even think about it--_ , and he glares in return.

But he surprises you, and puts his hands up in surrender. The growl dies in your throat. Well. Maybe he's smarter than you thought.

“That's right,” you reply. “Now come on.”

You gesture for him to follow you and he nods, but the moment you turn around to get your bearings, he dashes past you so fast that he's nothing but a blur.

You don't even understand what happened until you look around and notice that he's just gone.

But no, he is well ahead of you, trailing after the flock. He looks over his shoulder and, with an insufferable smirk on his face, waves jauntily in your direction before jumping into the crowd and blending in.

No. Fuck no.

Anger descends on you like a heatwave as you start running after Dave and you actually don't remember what happens next until you're already in the middle of the flock and shaking a riggan, yelling in xir face in pidgin, 'where human? Where human?' You can't see Dave anywhere, but he's got to be here.

Claws tug your sweater and several voices yell back.

“No human, no human! Gone. Gone long time now.”

They all point back, spooked, and then they shove you out of the flock, sending you stumbling against a wall. A few adults with sticks make threatening gestures towards you, but you slip down to the ground, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily.

Dave gave you the slip.

You had _one fucking job_.

*

When you get home, you scroll through the comments your review has gotten, you pick one that is particularly misguided, and then you proceed to educate the commenter on why they are a pan-addled pile of nook pus whose opinions are a blight upon the universe. You don't even care that your response might be an overreaction to their statement that the lead actor was pretty good in another movie. They're just lucky you didn't follow your first impulse to hunt them down and rage-puke on their face.

Later, as you haul your useless carcass into your recuperacoon, your rage curdles into self-loathing, as it always tends to do.

The worst part is that, for a few minutes there, you thought you could actually learn to tolerate each other.

*

You dream about your first day in the Threshecutioner Corps.

You remember the drill sergeant's expression as she looks at the gray trim on your uniform, and then up at your eyes, still gray with youth.

“Fucking reformist,” she spits at you. “What's the point, when we'll all see you bleed anyway?”

Back then, you'd just looked straight ahead and said nothing. Better to be suspected reformist than confirmed mutant.

In your dream, your eyes start bleeding and everybody watches in mute disgust.

*

AT: i WOULD LIKE TO APOLOGIZE, eVEN THOUGH, i'M NOT THE ONE WHO SHOULD BE, aPOLOGIZING TO YOU,

AT: aND i WOULD ALSO LIKE TO TELL YOU THAT, gIVEN HOW THINGS TURNED OUT, i WOULD BE COMPLETELY UNDERSTAND, oF THE FACT THAT YOU MIGHT NOT WANT, tO DO THIS ANYMORE,,,

CG: I'M COMING BY TOMORROW EVENING TO PICK DAVE UP.

CG: DON'T TELL HIM.

AT: aLRIGHT, sO, wHAT i'M GLEANING FROM YOUR MESSAGE IS THAT, yOU DON'T ACTUALLY WANT TO GIVE UP YET,

CG: I TOLD YOU, NITRAM. I'M NOT A QUITTER.

CG: YOU JUST PLAN WHATEVER YOU WANT WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND, AND I'LL KEEP HIM BUSY FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT.

*

Dave's face registers surprise for a split second before it settles back into calculated boredom. He launches into a short speech, the words incomprehensible to you, but the leeriness underneath them clear as day. Whatever mockery he's throwing your way now, he didn't expect you to come back.

You try to keep the savage grin off your face as you hand him a pamphlet.

He looks it over, trying to appear disinterested, but by the way his eyebrows quirk, he's clearly intrigued. 'Visit the Scenic Anchor Trees of Traverse!' the pamphlet declares in English, assuming that it's an exact translation of the Alternian one.

The riggan have five such trees in Traverse, and you know exactly which one you'll be taking him to.

“Grab your shit and let's go,” you say. “The sooner we get there, the sooner I can hand you your own ass with a garnish of well-deserved humility.”

He shrugs and smiles indulgently, like he's doing you a favor, and he takes his sweet time pulling on a jacket and strapping his sword to his back. He must have noticed the sickles hanging on your belt, but he doesn't give them more than a cursory glance, like he doesn't even care you're armed.

*

At the very least, Dave is subdued during the train ride, which is good, because you have to switch trains three times and make sure you don't board the wrong one of two identical cars heading in completely different direction. He spends his time staring out the window with his chin propped on his fist. He forgets to put on his aloof facade, and instead looks intensely thoughtful.

You, in turn, stare at him, for a long time, before you catch yourself and turn to look out the window as well.

*

The tree is swarming with more riggan than you knew existed in the entire city. When you lead Dave through the crowd (with a hand on his shoulder, and keeping him in front of you at all times), they part ways before you.

The arena is in the middle of the large hollow tree, and dappled with light coming in through the openings in the trunk. The floor is painted in crooked lines, forming a grid with alternating yellow and black squares. You've only seen this done once, so you hope you remember all the rules, but finding the Master of the Arena is simple enough. Xe is a scraggly old riggan, xir red and orange plume faded to a dusty gold with age. Also xe is wearing a huge pointy hat in an eye-searing shade of bright blue. You don't think you could miss that one even blindfolded and with your back turned.

Dave is now clearly intrigued and trying not to show it. There are already two contenders in the arena, two adaccs with wooden sticks. They hop around each other, keeping to their designated squares. You hope that Dave gets the gist of the game, at least. Unless he has sawdust instead of spongematter, which is always a possibility.

*

Dave is assigned yellow and you get black. The Master of the Arena knows some English, and xe screeches the rules in Dave's ear (xe can't say Dave, so xe keeps saying _Hrrrreiv_. You're _Kiiiirrrkhat_ , but at least that's closer, in your opinion).

Dave nods along, but it's clear he's not paying as close attention as he should. He looks out into the arena at the two adaccs whose bout is winding down, when really he should be looking out into the crowd. The riggan are alternately screeching and chirping and waving loose paper around. Up in the galleries, they crowd near the railing, almost hanging upside down to look at the arena.

Because you both came with bladed weapons, you're allowed to use your own. The Master of the Arena eyes your two sickles and you think he might not let you use both, but he decides that Dave has greater reach anyway, and even with two you'd be at a disadvantage in a real fight. It feels like a rebuff, but that just adds one more name to the list of people who need to start taking you seriously.

Dave seems to be in high spirits as he throws off his jacket and unsheathes his sword. He keeps his shades on, though. By the smirk on his face, he is probably operating under the delusion that he's going to kick your ass.

*

AT: oNLY, i FEEL THAT IT'S NECESSARY FOR ME TO MAKE SURE, tHAT YOU WON'T DO ANYTHING TOO, dRASTIC,

CG: DON'T WORRY, I'LL BRING THE DOUCHEBAG BACK ALIVE.

AT: oH GOOD,

CG: THE ONLY POSSIBLE WAY HE COULD DIE IS IF HE'S CRUSHED BENEATH THE IMMENSE WEIGHT OF HIS OWN CALCIFIED ASSHOLISHNESS, BUT THAT'S MORE OF AN ONGOING DANGER, RATHER THAN A DIRECT THREAT ON MY PART.

AT: oH,

AT: tHAT'S, rEASSURING, i SUPPOSE,,,

*

You discover that this is harder than it looks.

You can't exactly look down at your feet, like an awkward wriggler learning his first concupiscent dance, but neither can Dave. Your one comfort is that Dave gets as much penalties for stepping on the black squares as you get for stepping on the yellow. You cringe at every penalty gong, but at least so does Dave.

You get the hang of it, though, and then the real fun starts. You know Dave's much faster than you, but having to keep to the right squares is slowing him down considerably. It's also slowing you down, but speed was never your strength.

You listen closely to the crowd, the alarmed 'krrrrkt!' when you're about to incur a penalty, the pleased 'clk-clk' when you step on a correct square for the first time. Dave gets the same from the riggan who have money on him, so you also have to keep in mind the direction the sounds are coming from.

You're getting into the swing of things, but so is Dave.

The riggan are reduced to an abstract amalgamation of sound and color. It's you and Dave now.

*

You're the first to strike. You hop to the nearest black square and he blocks you with ease. He says something, his lips moving but the words lost to the din of screeching birdpeople.

He doesn't retreat. He strikes at you, and he's clearly never fought anybody with sickles before, because his face actually registers surprise when you catch his blade between the two of yours. You hold it in place for a few seconds as he pulls. It doesn't budge. He pulls a second time, harder, and you release it.

He stumbles back. The penalty gong sounds.

His jaw clenches.

*

You're more evenly matched than you expected, and that adds an element of—you're hesitant to admit this even to yourself, but—enjoyment. Somewhere between Dave breaking one of your sickles and you knocking off his shades, you realize that you are grinning.

Dave grins at you as well, wide and feverish, and you realize that you're both caught in the same mindspace, the whole world muted and faded around you as only the back and forth between you exists.

For a fraction of a second, the realization makes your head rush. The sound of the crowd crushes you, so loud that you can feel it pulsing in your horns. You can feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on you, and self-consciousness prickles up your spine.

Then Dave moves, zigzagging across squares, and your attention snaps back to him, like nothing outside the arena exists.

*

When it comes time to end it, you do it as quickly as you can.

You've already won, so there's no use for fancy moves. You just lunge. Dave moves exactly as you expect him to move, and dodges out of the way of your clumsy attack, but he also jabs his sword inside the curve of your sickle, swings around and manages to rip it from your grip through sheer momentum.

You fall with your knee on a yellow square, but the penalty gong doesn't sound.

The crowd's incessant noise ceases for a breath, and then starts again, ten times louder. The Master of the Arena jumps down and with and gives Dave an undignified little shove out of the way, then helps you to your feet.

Dave's expression of puzzlement turns to complete slack-jawed incomprehension as you're declared the winner.

As you're both herded out of the arena, Dave begins talking rapidly. By his tone, you guess that he is going through variations of “what is this bullshit”. You reach towards the nearest miserable-looking riggan and rip the paper from xir claws, presenting it to Dave.

Dave takes the paper and scowls at it, but as he looks at the yellow and black squares, his face changes to dawning realization. Because while all the black squares are marked, there is one yellow square near the upper margin that is blank.

*

You expect the train ride back to be passed in sullen silence.

To a point, you're right. Dave is silent, and so are you. You were handed a paper bag full of candied beetles by a jubilant riggan and you dig into it as soon as you and Dave find your seats. Dave, on the other hand, digs out his phrasebook and starts leafing through it. You don't think that whatever choice words he's looking for are written down in it.

But then, he must find what he's looking for, because he stops at a certain page and studies it intensely. His lips move soundlessly, but you have no idea what word he's trying to wrap his tongue around.

He looks at you eventually, with an expression of solemnity that looks misplaced on his face, and then, with the most godawful accent you're heard from anyone, up to and including species which lack lips, he says in Alternian,

“Congratulations.”

You feel your bloodpusher stutter in your chest. After you realize that you've been staring for much too long, you swallow the half-chewed beetle and mutter thanks.

Dave nods and extends a hand. You think, for a moment, that he's asking for some of your candied beetles, and you scowl at him, pressing the bag against your chest and getting ready to inform him how fucking rude it is to ask a troll to share their food, language barrier be damned, before Dave gives you an exasperated sigh and points to your right hand.

Oh right. Humans do this to express non-hostility, or something.

You offer him your hand and Dave grabs it, moving in up and down firmly. Okay, sure. That was almost not unpleasant.

As you pull your hand back, you wonder if Dave even understands the significance of a public duel. Even if humans have no concept of caliginous romance, does Dave even get how perfectly everything fell into place? A public humiliation, followed by a challenge to regain respect.

Not even the movies get it so right; the duels are always unnecessarily bloody and the kismeses are always at each other's throats, like movie makers think the audience has a three millisecond attention span and any reprieve from constant cattiness will make them instantly fall into a boredom coma.

But this was so real. Your body aches with fatigue, and also with actual bruises because _holy shit_ , Dave might not be as strong as you physically, but he moves in ways that make you want to pin him down to a wrestling mat.

You stuff a handful of beetles in your mouth as you realize where your thoughts are straying to.

This wasn't a date. You know that.

What a fucking waste that it wasn't.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the night goes much more smoothly. Dave buys lunch for the both of you from a street vendor, a greasy chunk of meat on a stick for you and a paper cone filled with sliced tubers for himself. You eat while sitting on the stairs of an ugly off-white residential building and you watch the people passing by. You make catty comments about the passers-by as you eat, and you suspect Dave does the same when he speaks. You don't really understand why you keep talking at each other like this, when neither can understand. Maybe it's because you can say almost anything and there's no chance of being judged.

You walk Dave back to the hotel. He gives you a short wave and a restrained almost-smile, but it looks ten times more sincere than the smirk he gave you just the other night as he ran away from you, and the thought leaves you just a little bit devastated.

You take the long route home and you spend the entire way staring at the ground, deep in thought, but by the time you reach your front door, you can't recall what you'd been thinking about.

When you empty your pockets, besides the wadded up paper bag from the candied beetles you find a piece of paper with black and yellow squares.

You sit down and consider that one square difference a long time. You crumple it up, but then you're assailed my regrets, so you uncrumple it and smooth it out with your hands. In the end, you put the paper in a drawer; safe, but not something to deal with right now.

*

You spend the rest of the night catching up on answering comments on your blog. A minor flame war has broken out, and it ends up taking hours just to sift through clusterfuck. After you're done with that, you heat up a frozen dinner and eat it at your husktop as you poke around the internet for things to do. You hope Dave likes tourist traps, and then you hope he doesn't, so he can suffer just as much as you.

By the time you haul yourself into your recuperacoon, your eyes sting and you're stiff all over. You haven't had a proper sparring match in perigees, and you might have forced yourself during the bout with Dave. But the sopor eases your pain and you fall asleep the moment you close your eyes.

You wake up to scratching in the walls. At first you think you're dreaming it, but when you open your eyes and listen again, you realize that you recognize that sound. You jump out of the recuperacoon so quickly you almost tip it over.

Goddammit. Your neighbor's brood hatched while she's away at work. Again. Now you have to pluck her sprog out of your vents. Again.

You go to the ablution chamber and quickly wash yourself off first, because you have no idea what sopor might do to the hatchlings, and then you have to find the screwdriver for the vent cover. By now, the scratching has begun to be accompanied by plaintive little eeps.

You hardly take the vent cover off before the first of the alien grub falls out. Good thing that whatever frothing assmunch designed this building at least placed the vent close to the ground. You scoop up the green-scaled creature—its oversized slitted eyes stare at you and its little tongue flicks out, but it seems mostly uninjured—and then you plop it into a box you keep just for this occasion.

The alien grub twists around, making distressed noises. It can't move around much, because its head makes up half of its body weight at this point in its life, so it just waves its stubby little limbs around, demanding to be picked up. You know they like your body heat, but the first time this happened, you ended up with a dozen of the things hanging onto you and Dippy laughed her ass off when she saw you.

The next grub is a pinkish-red, and the two after that are yellow. The last one is a dark purple, looking out of place alongside the more pastel grubs. But it's really the last one, and after you place it with its broodmates, you can no longer hear anything moving in the walls.

Of course, the fact that they're no longer making noise in your walls means they're making noise in your hive. Dippy told you it's some sort of survival instinct. The stronger ones devour the remains of the amniotic sacks and their siblings who didn't survive the bursting (and what a godawful name that is; 'bursting', like a gross overripe fruit) and the weaker crawl away before they get eaten as well. The fact that Dippy hasn't fixed her broken vent cover in the two solar revolutions since it broke means that every single time one of her broods hatches and she's not around, you get a visit from the crawlers. “It's better than if they eat each other,” Dippy said once. Better for the grubs, maybe, because it's certainly not better for you.

You heat up some water and put it in a bottle, and place that bottle inside the box. The alien spawn immediately stop complaining and cling to the bottle.

They're sort of fascinating to watch, in a purely scientific and unemotional kind of way. They look content to press as much of their bodies against the bottle as they can manage. You squelch the impulse to take a picture and post it on the internet, and you in fact wonder where that impulse is even coming from. You must be going soft.

You hear it when Dippy returns from work and go out in the hallway just as she's turning the key.

“Third fucking time this solar,” you grouse as you stomp up to her. “For fuck's sake, how hard is it to get a damn vent cover fixed?”

“Oh, has my brood hatched already?” she says, sounding absolutely delighted. She's about a foot taller than you, and she lowers her head to get through the door. “Wonderful news, I have seven new clients lined up, and their cycles are nearly synced. I thought I was going to have to send them to someone else.”

“Well, I'm glad you're having such a good time,” you grumble

She grins at you. Her face already looks like its stuck in a perpetual smile because of the way the scales around her face go from black to red around the corners of her mouth, but when she also displays her razor maw like this, something in the back of your think sponge starts bristling defensively.

Still, Dippy is still unusually friendly by her species' standards. You've never met an adacc who didn't insist on her full name, and the only reason you know Dippy's name is actually Rididipi is because that's what her snooty clients always call her. From what you've gleaned, 'Dippy' is actually a nickname she picked up from the human who inhabited your piddly, cramped living space before you.

“Bring the little ones over,” she says. “I will check on the rest.”

You do as she says, making sure not to jostle the box too much as you pick it up.

Dippy's hive is a fucking mess. There's gross transparent goo all over the place and a frothing mass of mewling adacc spawn spread across the floor. You stand in the doorway, holding the box and trying not to let too much of your disgust show. It's hot and humid inside the living space. The furniture is sparse, only a few throw pillows and a low table in a corner, while half of the main room, from floor to ceiling, is covered in the remains of the now broken amniotic sacks.

It's hot and humid, and you can see the equipment piled up in the corner, still chugging away to keep the environment ideal for gestation. It's the only technology you ever see Dippy use. Everybody in the building wonders what Dippy spends her money on, because her apartment is a lot more spare than anybody else's, and between the numerous jobs she holds down and her freelance broodkeeping, you and your neighbors have calculated her income to be somewhere between 'massive' and 'holy shit what is all this money'.

“So what have you been up to?” Dippy asks as she starts collecting the spawn. She has a box as well, though hers is padded, and she holds it against her hip as she picks up grubs and gently places them inside.

“Nothing. I haven't been up to anything other than finding your fucking crawlers in my vents again.”

“Reeeeaaaaally?” she says, putting on her disturbing smile again. She speaks Alternian with a hissing drawl, almost like a seadweller, but just different enough for it to sound wrong. “Is that why you were in so last night? You were gone before I even woke up and you weren't back by the time I left.”

You scowl.

“It's none of your business,” you say, because it really isn't.

She makes a sound in her throat, but doesn't say anything.

“I was just doing a favor for Tavros,” you say as you watch her sift through the goo and poke at one of the grubs. It doesn't move, and she leaves it on the ground. “I think I told you. With the human.”

“Oh right, his moirail's sister!”

“Brother.”

“Right, that one.”

She nods thoughtfully and pokes with her shoe at the half-chewed remains of a grub. She doesn't ask anything, but you know she's curious anyway. She just likes to let you stew.

“I took him to the riggan winter fights,” you tell her.

“I hope you didn't pick up any fleas,” she says.

“ _Dippy_.”

“I'm just saying,” she says with a defensive shrug, and then adds in a lower voice, “you know how they live.”

You in fact know very little about how the riggan live. You know they have an aversion to windows, but you don't really know how that has anything to do with fleas.

“Please stop.” You want to pinch the bridge of your nose, but you can't because you're still holding the box.

Dippy shrugs again.

“And?” she prompts.

“And I won.”

“That's good!”

“But it was very close.”

“That's not good?”

“Dippy,” you say, breathing in and out slowly, “I think if we fought again, he could beat me.”

Dippy rolls her eyes.

“Then don't fight him again, and you'll remain victorious.”

“But I want to.”

“So you can lose?”

“So I can see if he can beat me.”

She actually stops to look at you, dripping with incredulity.

“I fail to see the difference,” she says.

No, you suppose she wouldn't. Adacc don't have concupiscent romance. It probably doesn't have much of a point in a species of which most members are born pregnant. You're fairly sure adacc don't even possess genitalia of any nature, but you would sooner slowly drive nails into your eyes while gargling sewer water rather than ask anyone about it. The one quadrant adacc can wrap their heads around is the pale one, and even then, they have some strange notions about moirallegiance. You will never invite Dippy to see a romcom with you ever again.

“It doesn't matter, it's a troll thing,” you say.

Dippy hisses and tilts her head from side to side, a display you've learned to associate with disbelief.

“And since when, Karkat Vantas, has anything being a troll thing stopped you from lecturing me for hours on its inherent superiority?”

You scowl.

“Pardon me, I meant it's a troll romance thing,” you correct yourself.

“Oh,” is the only thing Dippy says. “ _Oh_.”

By now, she has finished collecting the little adacc from around the room. They occupy three different boxes, the two dozen alien grubs. You hand her your box as well.

“I'll have to call the mothers now,” she says thoughtfully.

You grumble something. Every time the mothers come to pick up their respective spawn, you always end up crossing paths with them in the hallways. Though they're all smaller than you—brood mothers don't grow as large as brood keepers, and you know Dippy is about the typical height for a keeper—they always insist on shoulder-checking you like they own the entire fucking corridor and you're just a peon they allow to breathe the same air out of their sheer magnanimity.

You can't even say anything, because if you piss off one adacc, you piss off all her sisters as well, and then you spend the rest of your life getting hounded by belligerent aliens, writing rude graffiti on your mailbox, cutting in line just in front of you, intruding on conversations if you dare have them in public. Adacc have strange notions about revenge. You wonder at times why they don't just fucking stab people, like all the civilized species in the galaxy do.

And brood mothers tend to be the worst, especially if they've just had their clutch. Dippy calls this “new mother pride”. You call it proof that assholes are a universal constant. It's no wonder Dippy left her homeworld if this is the shit she would have had to put up with on a constant basis.

“So what are you going to do?” Dippy asks, startling you out of your reverie.

“I'm going to fill the vents with concrete,” you reply.

“I meant about the human,” she says, unamused.

“I don't know. I'm supposed to be keeping him busy again soon. I don't even know what's going to keep him interested.” Because you're pretty sure that if you don't keep him entertained, he's going to try running away from you again.

“What does he like?” Dippy asks.

“I don't know. Swords?” You shrug. Dippy sighs.

“Did you ask him?”

“Oh, yeah. That's the other thing. He doesn't speak Alternian.”

“Then how have you been talking to him?”

“I haven't?”

She raises her arms up in the air and keeps them there for a moment, just to relay the depth of her dibelief.

“Karkat, what?” she says.

“I haven't been talking to him,” you admit with creeping embarrassment. “Mostly I just dragged him around and he went along with it. Mostly.”

“You can't talk to him and you don't know anything about him. But you have feelings for him?” Dippy says, putting her arms down.

“I don't... have _feelings_ , I just...”

“You just what?” Dippy says, her voice low and sympathetic.

*

It's your second day in the flaysquad and even though officially you aren't even allowed to touch a sickle yet, behind the barracks, away from the officers' sight, you're all eager to display whatever skills you picked up planetside.

“Come on, Vantas,” a cheerful blueblood says. “Lemme kick your ass.”

There are a few scattered chuckles from the small gathering.

“What makes you think I'm not going to be the one kicking yours?” you reply.

He smirks at you, a touch condescending, but you don't think highbloods have any other way of smiling, so you don't think much of it.

A friendly sparring match, that's all. This is how you'll make friends. You'll show them all how great you are and then they'll all be clamoring for a seat next to you at the mess.

But when you beat the blueblood, sending him sprawling on the ground, everybody around you falls quiet.

“Good fight,” you say, and offer him your hand to help him up.

What you expect is for him to laugh, take your hand, and promise to get you next time. That's how it goes in the movies. That's how friends are made in the adult world.

Instead, he slaps your hand away. His nostrils flare in anger.

“What a crock of shit! You cheated,” he growls as he gets to his feet.

The crowd around you starts whispering, but you stand there, shocked speechless.

*

“I don't know,” you admit. “I just want to beat him again.”

“Then take him to do something you're good at,” Dippy says.

“But it has to be something he's good at, too. Or at least something we're equally bad at.”

“But then you might not beat him!” she points out, genuinely exasperated.

“That's not the point,” you tell her.

*

By the time you finish explaining the subtle nuances of blackrom to Dippy and return home, you notice an open chatbox on the screen. The husktop pings even as you sit down.

This isn't anyone on your list of contacts. First because their screen name is not even written in Alternian and you don't have the correct font installed to see the characters that should be there, and second because their text is a bright red that feels like it's taunting you.

▯▯: hey then i hope i have the good guy

▯▯: in fact part of the hello talks was just a ▯▯▯▯▯ sure

▯▯: sup

▯▯: hello was part of the conversation was

▯▯: i'm bringing dirt out crappy online translator that can handle not think

▯▯: i'm don't sending you even if conceivable got a clue

▯▯: you are not answering is in fact a lot of confidence that is not motivated

▯▯: you probably do not even know what's is happening

▯▯: hey this is dave

You are just about to click the block button when your eyes fell on the last line, and you realize that it isn't some sort of defective spam bot having a seizure all over your screen. You read over the lines more carefully and realize that you should have recognized the stilted phrasings of an online translator from the start.

CG: YOU DO REALIZE ALMOST EVERYTHING YOU JUST SENT IS FUCKING INCOMPREHENSIBLE, RIGHT?

CG: YOU SEEM TO BE PUTTING A LOT OF EFFORT INTO THIS WHEN YOU COULD JUST BE SLAMMING YOUR FACE INTO THE KEYBOARD AND THE END RESULT WOULD BE PRETTY MUCH THE SAME.

CG: OH GOD, YOU'RE FEEDING MY REPLIES INTO THE SAME CRAPPY WEBSITE THAT CHURNED OUT YOUR PART OF THE CONVERSATION OUT THROUGH ITS PUSTULENT SPHINCTER, AREN'T YOU?

▯▯: in one online translator i am moved by your answers if you ask me

▯▯: at the other end of the line, ▯▯▯ will not do his share of work to do so means a poor woman

CG: I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU JUST CALLED ME, BUT THIS WAS CLEARLY A TERRIBLE IDEA ON YOUR PART AND YOU SHOULD FEEL SORRY FOR SUBJECTING MY INNOCENT GANDERBULBS TO YOUR MEANINGLESS TRIPE.

You look over your list of contacts, relieved to see that Tavros is online.

CG: PLEASE SAVE ME FROM HAVING MY THINKSPONGE LEAK OUT MY SNIFF NODE FROM EXPOSURE TO STUPIDITY RADIATION.

AT: tHAT, sOUNDS LIKE A CONDITION THAT IS BOTH SERIOUS, aND COMPLETELY MADE UP,

CG: GUESS WHO CONTACTED ME JUST NOW OVER TROLLIAN.

AT: dO i GET, a HINT OR SOMETHING,

CG: IT'S DAVE.

AT: oKAY, sO YOU DIDN'T ACTUALLY WANT ME TO GUESS,

AT: hOW, mAY i ASK, iS HE TALKING TO YOU?

CG: POORLY. HE'S USING SOME SORT OF SHITTY TRANSLATOR.

CG: I'LL COPY-PASTE THE CONVERSATION.

AT: nO, dON'T DO THAT,

CG: NO, TRUST ME, YOU HAVE TO WITNESS THE STUPENDOUS IDIOCY OF IT ALL FIRST HAND.

AT: eXCEPT, i DON'T ACTUALLY CARE, wHAT dAVE TALKS ABOUT AND WHO WITH,

AT: oR WHAT HE DOES OR THINKS, fOR THAT MATTER, aND i DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT ANYMORE, fROM ANYONE, wHICH IS A LIST THAT ALSO INCLUDES YOU,

CG: DID SOMETHING HAPPEN WITH ROSE?

AT: nO, nOT REALLY,

AT: sHE COMPLAINS A LOT, bUT, fROM WHAT SHE'S BEEN SAYING, sHE HAS GOOD REASON,

CG: WHAT DID DAVE DO TO PISS HER OFF?

AT: iT ISN'T THAT HE DID, aNY ONE THING, iT'S MORE THAT HIS OVERALL ATTITUDE, iS ONE THAT IMPLIES THAT HE CONSIDERS HER WEAK, aND IN NEED OF HIS PROTECTION,

CG: WOW. HE ACTUALLY DOES THAT SHIT IN FRONT OF YOU?

AT: sORT OF, bUT, iT ISN'T LIKE THAT,

CG: IT ISN'T LIKE WHAT? HE'S A FUCKING CREEP. YOU DON'T JUST TRESPASS ON SOMEONE ELSE'S MOIRALLEGIANCE LIKE THAT. THIS IS HOW REVENGE CYCLES GET STARTED.

AT: eXCEPT, hE'S NOT DOING THAT, hE'S JUST, aCTING WELL WITHIN THE BOUNDS, oF WHAT HUMANS DEEM AN ACCEPTABLE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN LITTER MATES,

AT: hENCE rOSE'S FRUSTRATION,

CG: WHO THE FUCK CARES ABOUT ALL THAT. YOUR MOIRALLEGIANCE IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN WHATEVER BIZARRE CONNOTATIONS THEY GIVE TO THE FACT THAT THEY HAVE SLIGHTLY MORE DNA IN COMMON THAN ANY OTHER TWO RANDOMLY SELECTED HUMANS.

AT: hUMANS, dON'T REALLY SEE IT LIKE THAT,

CG: THEN HOW THE FUCK DO THEY SEE IT?

AT: mORE LIKE, aPPARENTLY BECAUSE rOSE WAS OUT OF TOUCH WITH HER FAMILY UNIT, aND HAS THE OCCASIONAL LAPSE, iNTO BROODFESTER TONGUES, iT MAKES HER A LOOSE CANNON OF SORTS, aND THEY CAN'T RELY ON HER, tO TAKE CARE OF HERSELF,

CG: THEN WHY DON'T THEY RELY ON YOU FOR THAT. YOU'RE

CG: ***** RIGHT *

CG: **FUCKING**

CG: ***THERE***

AT: I HAD HOPED, tO IMPRESS THIS UPON dAVE, bUT HE WOULD RATHER CONSTANTLY INTERFERE, tHAN ACTUALLY LET ME HELP HER, }:(

AT: tHE ONLY TIME, hE DOESN'T HASSLE US, iS WHEN HE'S WITH YOU,

CG: DOES DAVE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE?

AT: i DON'T THINK SO?

AT: tHAT'S A STRANGE QUESTION, tO ASK,

CG: I'M GOING TO KEEP THE DOUCHEBAG DISTRACTED FOR A DAY. YOU CHECK ROSE OUT OF THE HOTEL AND TAKE HER TO YOUR PLACE.

AT: i'M NOT SURE, rOSE WILL GO WITH THAT,

CG: TELL HER IT'S EITHER SHE GOES ALONG NICELY OR I PUT DAVE IN THE HOSPITAL.

AT: yOU WOULDN'T, rEALLY,

CG: MAYBE I REALLY WOULDN'T. MAYBE YOU SHOULD REPEATEDLY REASSURE ROSE THAT YOU'RE REASONABLY CERTAIN I WOULDN'T ACTUALLY DO IT, AND IF I WOULD, IT WOULDN'T BE TO SUCH AN EXTENT THAT WOULD REQUIRE PERMANENT HOSPITALIZATION.

CG: IN FACT, DO IT IN THOSE EXACT WORDS.

CG: LET'S SEE IF SHE'LL GO WITH IT THEN.

CG: HOLD ON, LET ME CHECK ON THE OTHER CHAT WINDOW. THE BASTARD'S BEEN STEWING IN HIS OWN RANCID WORD SALAD FOR A WHILE NOW.

True enough, when you click over to Dave's window, you are blasted with whole reams of red text. It's all gibberish, though by the end it looks like he finally noticed he was talking to himself and just started sending you random words.

▯▯: You may not leave the man I

▯▯: clocks

▯▯: food preparation block sink

▯▯: barrel

▯▯: ▯▯▯▯▯▯

▯▯: trolls do not have a word i can not believe for ▯▯▯▯▯▯

CG: OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WHY DID YOU EVEN CONTACT ME? WE'RE GOING TO GLOSS OVER THE HOW FOR THE MOMENT.

▯▯: it was not difficult

▯▯: has rose her cuddle boyfriend's friends contact information for all

▯▯: actually it's weird to think about it is like

CG: THAT DOESN'T REALLY ANSWER THE QUESTION I EXPLICITLY WANTED ANSWERED OVER THE ONE YOU ACTUALLY ANSWERED.

▯▯: planning for our next date i just wanted to see if you

You blink after reading the last reply, and go over it a few more times to make sure you didn't miss something obvious. You switch over to Tavros's window.

CG: DOES THE WORD “DATE” HAVE ANY CONNOTATIONS IN THE HUMAN LANGUAGE OTHER THAN THE OBVIOUS ONE REFERRING TO AN ACTIVITY YOU ENGAGE IN WITH A CURRENT OR PROSPECTIVE QUADRANT MATE?

AT: wELL, iT CAN ALSO REFER TO, mEASURES OF TIME, oR SUCH,

AT: i SUPPOSE IT WOULD DEPEND, oN CONTEXT.

CG: 00: planning for our next date i just wanted to see if you

AT: wOW, yOU WEREN'T KIDDING, aBOUT THE TERRIBLE QUALITY OF THE TRANSLATION,

CG: JUST FUCKING TELL ME WHAT I'M SUPPOSED TO UNDERSTAND BY DATE IN THIS CONTEXT.

AT: uH, wELL, yOU SEE,

CG: I'M READING TOO MUCH INTO IT, AREN'T I?

AT: nOT NECESSARILY, bECAUSE HE'S OBVIOUSLY USING THAT WORD, iN THE SENSE YOU THOUGHT HE WAS,

AT: bUT ALSO, aS A WORD OF CAUTION, dAVE TENDS TO USE WORDS IN WAYS THAT DON'T ALWAYS SEEM LOGICAL, aS HE OFTEN EMPLOYS, mETAPHORS AND SIMILES AND SUCH,

AT: sO WHILE HE MIGHT BE USING THAT WORD TO REFER TO AN ACTUAL DATE,

AT: hE MIGHT NOT MEAN IT LITERALLY, eITHER,

AT: iF THAT MAKES SENSE, wHICH ADMITTEDLY A LOT OF WHAT dAVE SAYS, dOESN'T,

CG: SO I'M READING TOO MUCH INTO IT.

AT: I DON'T KNOW dAVE WELL ENOUGH TO MAKE THAT JUDGMENT,

AT: bUT I DO KNOW HE WAS, iN UNUSUALLY HIGH SPIRITS WHEN HE RETURNED, fROM WHATEVER YOU WERE DOING YESTERDAY,

AT: sO TAKE THAT AS YOU WILL,

You can work with that, you decide. Play it cool, Vantas. Act casual.

CG: NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS. YOU'RE GOING TO COME ALONG QUIETLY AND HAVE SO MUCH FUN THAT YOUR PUNY HUMAN THINKWEDGE IS GOING TO SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST WITH GLEE.

▯▯: wow interpreter found that half of

▯▯: are you planning to try to explain it to the English language the epic must be left

CG: YEAH, I UNDERSTAND ABSOLUTELY FUCKSHIT ALL OF WHAT YOU JUST SAID. I'M GOING TO JUST GO AHEAD AND ASSUME ALL YOUR CAPILLARIES HAVE JUST BURST WITH ANTICIPATION.

Shit. You switch over to your other open chat window.

CG: TAVROS YOU HAVE TO HELP ME.

CG: I MIGHT HAVE OVERSOLD IT.

AT: wHAT EXACTLY, mIGHT YOU HAVE OVERSOLD?

CG: THE DATE.

AT: sO NOW YOU'RE SURE, tHAT IT'S A DATE,

CG: IT'S NOT GOING TO BE IF IT ISN'T SOMETHING QUOTE-UNFUCKINGQUOTE “EPIC”.

CG: I DON'T EVEN HAVE ANYTHING PLANNED YET, MUCH LESS SOMETHING THAT WILL LIVE UP TO HIS ARTIFICIALLY INFLATED EXPECTATIONS.

CG: I'M THE DISGUSTING BRAGGART ON EVERY FUCKING SITCOM, TAVROS. I'M THE NASTY LYING WINDBAG WHO GETS CULLED FOR REPRODUCTIVE INCOMPETENCE BECAUSE HE LIED ABOUT HAVING HIS CONCUPISCENT QUADRANTS FILLED TO MAKE HIMSELF LOOK BETTER IN FRONT OF HIS POSSE OF TWO-DIMENSIONAL DOUCHEBUDDIES.

AT: i'M SURE YOU'RE NOT GOING TO GET CULLED, fOR PROMISING A HUMAN A GOOD TIME,

AT: pARTLY BECAUSE, lAST i CHECKED, aS A MUTANT, yOU AREN'T ALLOWED TO CONTRIBUTE TO THE SLURRY, bUT MOSTLY BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT A SITCOM CHARACTER,

AT: eVEN THOUGH YOUR CURRENT CONUNDRUM IS PRETTY TYPICAL, oF A COMMON SITCOM TROPE,

CG: RIGHT?! I CAN'T BELIEVE I DIDN'T PICK UP ON IT RIGHT AWAY! WHAT THE FUCK HAVE ALL THOSE SWEEPS OF WATCHING SITCOMS BEEN PREPARING ME FOR?! HAVE I LEARNED NOTHING FROM TROLL WILL SMITH'S HILARIOUS AND IMPROBABLE SHENANIGANS?

AT: oKAY, i'LL HELP YOU OUT, sEEING AS i ALREADY OWE YOU A FAVOR, aND THIS IS THE LEAST i CAN DO,

AT: fIRST OF ALL, dID YOU MAKE ANY CONCRETE PROMISES?

CG: I MIGHT HAVE IMPLIED THAT I WOULD BLOW HIS MIND.

AT: oKAY, tHAT'S VAGUE ENOUGH,

AT: hOLD ON, i'M GOING TO HAVE TO CONFER, oN THIS SUBJECT, wITH AN EXPERT,

You click over to Dave's window. He's sending you more gibberish, but it's even more incomprehensible than before, so you don't pay much attention.

Then a third chat window pops open, and you're so tense that you actually jump out of your seat in surprise.

▯▯: As I understand it, you are currently faced with a serious conundrum regarding Dave.

CG: WHO THE FUCK

▯▯: Unless your circle of acquaintances is replete with humans, I think you can divine the correct answer all by yourself.

CG: ROSE?

▯▯: A remarkable feat of deduction. I commend you.

▯▯: Yes, this is Rose.

▯▯: Tavros has informed me of the situation and I have decided to lend to you my extensive knowledge of Dave, as to aid you in the courtship process.

CG: THANKS. BUT

▯▯: But?

CG: IS THERE A CATCH OR SOMETHING?

▯▯: Not so much a catch as a base condition.

CG: AND WHAT'S THAT?

▯▯: I understand the nature of black romance, and I can accept that it comes with certain inherent risks. Dave is more than well-equipped to handle most of it.

▯▯: However, and please interpret my words as literally as possible, if you hurt Dave in any non-consensual or abusive manner, I will hunt you down, rend the flesh from your bones and turn your spine into a xylophone.

▯▯: Do you know what a xylophone is, Karkat?

CG: NO

▯▯: Well, then, it's best you never find out, don't you agree?

CG: SHIT.

▯▯: Excellent.

*

Dave is already waiting for you, sprawled on the steps in front of the hotel in a pose calculated down to the pinky to look casual. When he sees you, he brings two fingers to his forehead like a salute, maintaining the same bored expression as always.

“Are you going to sit on your ass all day? Get up, we've got things to do,” you say.

A smirk flashes across his face, but it disappears as he raises his hands innocently and shrugs like he doesn't know what you're talking about. You gesture for him to get up, but he just tilts his head and launches into a long-winded speech, still not getting up.

The insufferable prick is flirting with you. How does a member of a species that insists it doesn't have black romance even get to be so good at this?

You lean down and grab him by the front of his hoodie and haul him up to his feet, bringing his face right up to yours.

“I said get up, you lazy nookdiddler,” you hiss as you're nose to nose with him.

His shades slide down and you end up staring straight in his eyes, bright red and wide with surprise, like he can't believe you called his bluff. You're surprised by yourself as well; this is entirely too forward.

Then you have a flicker of doubt. A sneaking suspicion that he's not impressed by your smooth moves, but instead confused by your actions and completely unaware of what's happening. You let go of him abruptly, and he stumbles back.

He straightens his clothes and grins, spouting words at you again.

You still don't know if you just made a move on a potential kismesis or frightened a clueless alien, and Dave's not making it easy to tell the difference. But Rose wouldn't have helped you out if she thought your attentions were unwelcome, so you comfort yourself with that thought.

Tonight you don't take the train. If Dave notices that you're going the wrong way, he doesn't say anything. He walks next to you, hands in pockets, and he rambles on and on. You can't tell if he's talking to himself or to you, but you listen either way. His voice has a smooth, perfectly even quality that you've never heard from a troll. It lacks all the usual inflections and subvocal cues, so to your ears, it sounds like one long run-on sentence. It has its own sort of flow and cadence, alien but comforting. You are starting to understand why some people find the sound of babbling brooks or windchimes so relaxing, even if they're just meaningless noise to you.

He looks up as you reach the hailing tower, and his brows knit in confusion. Clearly he's never taken a scuttlebus before. You are about to educate him on the superiority of Alternian methods of transportation.

You guide Dave to the staircase leading up the tower and have him climb ahead of you, a move which has the advantage of letting you get a good look at his ass in action. You didn't plan this and you don't mean to scope his backside, but it just sort of works out that way, and you decide not to look a gift hoofbeast in the oral cavity.

There are already a few expectant passengers waiting at the top, at least half a dozen trolls and a few other aliens of different species. The crowd that usually travels by scuttlebus is mainly troll, but diverse enough that you and Dave don't draw much attention. You hope nobody here thinks Dave is your moirail, because the very thought is deeply disturbing to you.

Dave lapses into complete silence, and you suspect that it has something to do with the fact that there might be people here who could actually understand him. You're overwhelmed by the burning curiosity to know what he's saying. He can't possibly be as incoherent and bizarre as the online translator rendered him, but there must be some quirk to the way he talks for his lines to come out as garbled as they did.

The high-pitched buzz of the scuttlebus is audible in the distance, and everybody turns their head to look for it. Dave does as well.

It pops up unexpectedly, flying up from over the ledge of the tower and landing in the designated space abruptly, and without much sound. In the first split second, Dave's hand goes to the hilt of his sword. He snatches it away when nobody else reacts to the appearance of the insectile vehicle, and then he sneaks a glance at you to see if you witnessed the slip.

In lieu of anything to say, you give him your best shit-eating grin. Dave huffs and looks away, pretending he's not flustered.

The scuttlebus twitches its wings impatiently as the passengers board. It stands perfectly still otherwise, and the automatic ladder balloon on its side fills with air, allowing passengers to climb aboard.

The corner of Dave's mouth twists in disgust. Humans don't generally like insects, you've learned. But you're not giving Dave much of a choice, and even if you were, he would still probably board the scuttlebus to prove how unflappable he is.

You don't even have to point him to the ladder, he just gets in line all on his own.

The inside is unassuming enough, even by human standards, with two rows of seats on each side. Dave takes the window seat. You glare, but sit down next to him anyway.

*

At some point, as the scuttlebus begins its journey, scurrying down the roadway at full speed, Dave whips out his portable communication device and starts fiddling with it.

He goes through a list of games. You recognize the colorful logos, even if they're mirrored and written in different letters. He settles on a game you're vaguely familiar with, even if you haven't played it: a maze box that needs to be tilted this way and that in order to get a ball inside a hole.

Out of lack of anything else to do, you watch him play. He presses the buttons furiously and breezes through the first seven levels. The eighth takes a few tries. By the time he gets to the ninth, it's clear he's stuck.

By this point, you're pressed against his side and craning your neck to look at the screen. He tilts it towards you, like he's asking for your opinion, but you're just as stumped as he is. The little number in a corner says he has to complete the puzzle in seven moves, but all the ways you see to get the little pixelated ball in the right place involve at least eight.

You both sit in silence, gawking at the screen of his device like befuddled grubs staring down their first schoolfeeding module, and it's... really kind of nice.

You don't mind it.

*

You're the first to come up with the solution, and you point at the screen with a shaky finger. Dave hands you off the device and you manage to win the level. You're so pleased you give a little chirp.

Your eyes flick to Dave's face, but he doesn't seem to have noticed your embarrassing slip-up. He gives a short bark of laughter as he stares at the screen with an appreciative look, a kind of 'why didn't I think of that' expression, and you almost chirp again.

*

After that, it's a race to see who can find the solution first. You're disappointed when the scuttlebus reaches its destination. Dave was ahead in score by one, and you were sure you could find the next solution before him.

Dave looks just as disappointed, and maybe a little bit smug around the edges as he pockets the device.

You realize, your bloodpusher skipping, that he was keeping score as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anybody is wondering what Dave's original lines were before being fed through the online translator, I have them right here:
> 
> TG: hey so i hope i got the right guy  
> TG: actually im pretty sure i did that was just a segue into the greeting part of the conversation  
> TG: sup  
> TG: that was it that was the greeting part of the conversation  
> TG: im not bringing out the fancy shit i dont think this crappy online translator could handle that  
> TG: i got no clue if what im sending you is even comprehensible  
> TG: the fact that youre not answering isnt inspiring a lot of confidence i gotta say  
> TG: though you probably dont even know whats happening  
> TG: hey its dave
> 
> TG: if youre asking me if im putting your replies through the same online translator yeah  
> TG: i mean whats a poor lady to do when the cad at the other end of the line wont do his share of the work
> 
> TG: you cant ignore me forever dude  
> TG: i cant believe trolls dont have a word for google
> 
> TG: it wasnt hard  
> TG: rose has the contact information for all of her cuddle boyfriends friends  
> TG: actually its kind of creepy now that i think about it
> 
> TG: i just wanted to see if you had anything planned for our next date
> 
> TG: wow the translator didnt even get half of that  
> TG: whatever youre planning must be so epic the english language gave up on trying to describe it


	4. Chapter 4

Your surroundings must look like a cheap mock-up of one of Earth's rainforests to Dave. At least, you assume Dave knows what an Earth rainforest looks like. Humans can be incredibly ignorant about things that pertain to them, as their constant unintended pale promiscuity proves.

The green slivers peeling off the buildings resemble large leaves and the ground is covered in dry paint chips in various shades of green, yellow and brown. You've never gotten an adequate explanation for why the yvrains cover their homes in this strange constantly peeling substance, but its organic appearance and strong smell tends to bother a lot of species. Not so much trolls, but Dippy tells you the humans who neighbor the yvrain neighborhood complain about it being an eyesore and a health hazard.

The buildings themselves are round, spiraling things with domed tops. They arch slightly over the road, and combined with the walkways connecting the upper levels, it means the meandering street between them is fairly dark. At night, however, the yvrains put lamps in their windows, so there's at least some light to see by.

Dave still pushes his shades up on his head. You find it gratifying; it's an unfair advantage for him to wear those things all the time. He also scrunches his nose and grimaces at the smell. Well, sucks to be him. He shouldn't have been born a dainty little human.

He looks around critically and launches into what you assume to be a long list of complaints. You roll your eyes and put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him along. He can walk and bitch at the same time.

He trails off once you reach the gorge.

Dave looks down over the edge, and then at you, and then back over the edge, and you discover that he doesn't have to say anything for 'are you shitting me right now' to leap across the language barrier like a two-wheeled engine-powered device across a chasm of fire. He probably can't see much in the darkness, other than a few faint dots of light.

You very emphatically point to a rope ladder nearby (yvrain city planning at its best), and you stare him right into his now exposed eyes. He doesn't blink and he doesn't turn away. Instead, without breaking eye contact, he goes to the ladder and starts climbing down. The fact that he doesn't slip and fall to his death for not paying attention to the task at hand is both the dumbest and the most impressive thing you've witnessed so far.

Once he's far enough down that you won't tread on his hands, you follow. The rope ladder shakes and swings in unexpected directions, as you both try to compensate for each other's movements, but you move slowly and carefully and try very hard not to hurtle to your death.

Something Dave likely couldn't have anticipated was the great cavern below. The walls of the gorge are convex, and underneath the lip of earth from which the rope ladder hangs, there is a curved stone wall. It's covered in sparkly minerals, phosphorescent mushrooms and plants that breathe out fine clouds of pollen at regular intervals, and the result is a sort of confused collage of psychedelic colors and shapes, and thin strings of mist wending through the air.

You hear Dave inhale sharply and stop. You stop as well, because you don't have a choice unless you want to him as a ladder instead (not that you're not tempted, but you predict that he would suck spectacularly at it). But then you hear a few clicks, and when you look down, you realize he's taking pictures with his portable communication device.

“Are you fucking kidding me? _Right now_?” you hiss, hanging onto the ladder just a little bit tighter.

Dave, with his elbows looped around a ladder rung and both his hands holding the device, gives you a petulant stare back. Then he snaps a few more pictures just for good measure.

You grit your teeth. “God, I hope we die here just so I can blame it on you.”

He puts the device away and continues on down, but he does stop a few more times to take more pictures. You have nobody but yourself to blame for this. You've met enough humans to realize by now how easily they're distracted by pretty colors and shiny shit. When Rose told you that aesthetically appealing landscapes were a common romantic setting for humans, she should have specified that meant the human would be spending most of his time taking pictures while blowing raspberries in death's face.

When you finally reach the ground, you're dizzy and every muscle in your body is tired from being clenched in fear. You think you play it off pretty well when you stretch casually and roll your shoulders like it was just a warm-up. Dave rubs his palms together and pops his fingers, and then he grumbles some complaint.

Shit, you would have complained too if you knew he would. Now you lost your chance to eat him out--

_Chew._ You missed your chance to _chew_ him out. For his reckless behavior.

You cough in embarrassment, even though he didn't hear what you were thinking.

The heavy smells from above have now been replaced by a more chemical odor, stinging the inside of your nose. Dave sneezes. That's the problem with yvrains. They treat smell as an indispensable part of the architecture, and they're already got a pretty fucking awful sense of architecture.

You look around to get your bearings. You've never actually been here before. You got your directions from an obscure blog with ugly layout, but at least they were thorough directions. It said that once you were at the bottom of the gorge you were supposed to follow the treeline towards the eastern end.

The trees are scraggly things, black and leafless, like burnt husks, but their delicate branches vibrate constantly. They line the walls of the gorge, starting just a little ways away from where the ladder ends. Dave gives them uneasy look, but follows you along.

Near the end of the gorge, there is already a small gathering. A few other humans, a couple of riggan, five adacc keeping to themselves (probably sisters, because it was safe to assume that of any adacc traveling in groups), and even another troll—a haughty indigo who leers at you through her painted face. You don't balk, though your hand goes to the sickle at your belt. Traverse might still be part of the Alternian Empire, but in many ways, it is very far away.

There is an air of expectancy over the group. One of the humans walks up to Dave and starts talking to him. Humans do this, you've discovered since arriving on Traverse. They strike up conversations with complete strangers, especially if they're of the same species.

You didn't understand the impulse at first, chalking it up to some alien oddity, but after the first few perigees on the planet and having to stare into unfamiliar-shaped faces every single night, even you sometimes end up conversing with complete strangers only because you happen to be the same species. They also always talk back, which is doubly surprising. You got used, after your last molt, to trolls avoiding your eyes.

The human talking to Dave is, by your best guess, female. She talks in a chipper voice and gestures widely with her hands. Dave replies in a practiced monotone. You watch them, curious to see Dave interact with members of his own species. You're not ogling him or anything, you're just curious, and if there's any insight to be had into Dave's character, it really would be a shame to miss it.

Dave's face remains impassive throughout the conversation, while the other human's goes through an impressive array of emotions, starting with puzzlement, transitioning into incredulity, leaping into mild horror, and swinging all the way into confusion. She throws you looks throughout this process that make you feel like you should be experiencing massive amounts of guilt.

You can only imagine what Dave is telling her. He's trying to make you squirm by badmouthing you to strangers, you're pretty sure. It sets your teeth on edge, because this isn't proper kismesis behavior. It's a blatant show of disrespect, and just a hair too ashen for your taste. You're supposed to make your kismesis appear impressive to people you've just met, so when you publicly best them in something, your victory looks more impressive. And also to make new acquaintances envy you for the choice piece of ass you managed to score in one of your quadrants, but that goes without saying.

You are beginning to have a great deal of second thoughts about tonight's enterprise.

Then, unexpectedly, the human woman makes an offended sound and her face settles into annoyance. She turns to you.

“Your friend is a real ass,” she says in halting Alternian. You're completely thrown for a loop by this remark, but she doesn't seem to notice as she looks over her shoulder at Dave, disdain clear on her face. She then throws you a final sympathetic look and walks off to rejoin her group.

You remain slack-jawed for a moment, before looking at Dave. He shrugs with a faint smile on his face.

You are baffled by this unexpected turn. You've never heard of trolls sacrificing their own social capital in an attempt to swing someone's opinion in their kismesis's favor before. You're not sure what it would even _mean_ , and coming from an alien, it's all the more incomprehensible. Is this some sort of human peculiarity?

Or maybe a human courtship technique?

No, of course it isn't a courtship technique. You have no reason to believe it would be. You are being ridiculous, like some planet-bound snot-nosed wriggler writing extensive meta on a bubblr gifset of two characters they ship standing next to each other, except you're one of the two characters you ship, which makes this at least ten thousand times more embarrassing than all of the bubblr meta you ever inflicted on others.

You're having even more doubts than before, and you're just about ready to throw Dave over your shoulder and haul him out of here to spare you both the humiliation of going through with this travesty you call a date, but that's exactly when the yvrains show up.

They shuffle self-importantly towards you, five of them dressed in ground-sweeping robes. You think they might be attempting a solemn procession. The effect is ruined by the ugly spherical hats they all wear.

The yvrains look over all of you. The one leading the procession and wearing the most ostentatious robes nods in approval. By the patchy blue-dyed fur on their face, you guess this must be the chief artisan. They reach into the folds of their robe and pull out a flat black stone, iridescent like oil. They turn it in their hands a few times, and pass it on to the nearest alien.

The adacc who receives it turns the stone in her hands and smiles. She rubs her fingers all over it, then nods and passes it on to one of her sisters. Her sister gives the stone an appraising once-over, and she too passes it on.

The stone makes the rounds, as Dave looks on. He frowns, not understanding what is going on, until the stone reaches him.

He accepts it, at first unimpressed, but the moment the stone slides into his palm, his eyebrows rise and his body stiffens. He brings the stone up to his ear, and then down again, completely taken with it.

He is reluctant to give it to you, but he does. When the stone touches your palm, you hear it, the psychic music etched in the material. It rises from the deepest crevasses of your subconscious and fills your head from the inside. You couldn't put the music to notes or hum it, because it isn't a physical thing, but that just makes it feel even more special and precious.

You are not here for this stone, even though you're impressed that this small item can do the things it does. But Dave wants it, you can see it in his face, and if he wants it, then you want it. You want to win it and then flaunt having it.

You're the last one to handle the stone and you give it back to the yvrain.

**This is the prize tonight** , the yvrain's words are projected into your minds, large and thick like the warning labels on bottles of sopor. You get the sense that the yvrain is male, by the way he projects himself in your mind. Dave flinches, but recovers quickly. Everybody reacts that way when they first hear an yvrain communicate.

**Contenders will follow** , he adds.

Then the yvrain turns around, and his four companions fall in step behind him as in a practiced formation. You all follow them, and they lead you through an opening in the wall of the gorge.

You are slightly disturbed to then find yourself inside a massive underground complex, clearly not a natural formation, but carved out of the stone. Oh dear sweet Condesce's ass, there is no way this is safe. The idiots are going to create a sinkhole, right in the middle of the city.

You file this thought away for later this week, when you'll be writing your next angry email to the Traverse city council.

The yvrains stop at the very edge of a ledge. It overlooks a whole forest of the same bare black trees as outside, only there are so many that their vibrant branches create a constant humming sound. You can't see how far the forest extends. There are no lamps beyond the doorway, though you can see thin threads of light through the branches. It looks like it just disappears into the distance, like a sea. An ugly dry underground sea that hums. So nothing like a sea at all, really.

**If you desire it** , the yvrain says, raising the stone, **seek it out.**

Then he reels back and throws it. It flies far, much farther than you expected it to, and falls through the branches of the leafless canopy, disappearing from sight.

**Follow the music** , comes the yvrain's final piece of advice, as everybody already starts to scramble.

Some take the carved stone steps down to the trees, but others jumps right down. Dave leaps off the ledge, grabs onto a tree branch on the way down to slow his fall, and falls neatly to the ground. He surreptitiously rubs at his shoulder, but still tries to act cool, even though he blatantly isn't.

You take the stairs, and by the time you're at the ground level, Dave is far gone.

You can hear the music of the stone in your head, drawing you to it, and you start running. You're going to do it, you're going to beat Dave to it.

*

You don't beat Dave to it.

*

Dave seems completely taken with his prize. He hefts it in his hand, throws it in the air and catches it, looking inordinately proud with himself. The scuttlebus tower is completely empty save for the two of you. It's at that eerie time of night, about an hour before dawn, when Traverse slows down a bit and grows quiet.

“What a fucking mess,” you say. “That was the worst date in the history of all sentient species who ever attempted concupiscence.”

Dave doesn't seem too bothered with your grumbling. In fact, he seems to be ignoring it completely.

“And where the fuck even were you?” you continue, undeterred. “You're not supposed to just vanish, numbskull. You could have at least dropped in to taunt me once in a while. I thought you were dead.”

You really did. He just vanished, and even though you managed to cross paths with every single other person in the labyrinthine forest, you didn't come across Dave until the very end. It was the height of rudeness. You really should educate Dave on the finer points of caliginous dating etiquette before you try this again.

And then, because he doesn't understand a single goddamn word you're saying anyway, you mutter, “I'm glad you weren't.”

But something must have come through in your tone, because he turns to look at you, serious all of a sudden, and you feel yourself overwhelmed by self-consciousness.

Your eyes dart to the stone—it doesn't have any weird translating powers, does it? Because that would be the most inconveniently timed convenient discovery of all times—but your attention returns to Dave.

A smile spreads on his face. You think, at first, that he's just smirking.

He has absolutely nothing to smirk about. His behavior was atrocious. No wonder humans don't have quadrants, they'd be abysmal at handling them. Dave's horrifically un-trollish conduct tonight is proof of that.

But then, if Dave were troll, he wouldn't even think about touching you with a ten foot pole. You are a mutant and forbidden from contributing to the slurry, and even with the lax standards here at the border, it would be suicide for any troll to enter a concupiscent relationship with you.

It only now occurs to you that that's the reason you might be fixating on Dave.

The scuttlebus arrives, interrupting your musings.

On the ride back, you sit across from him. Dave leans back in his seat with his eyes closed, stone clenched in his fist and a finger tapping against the side of his thigh in a rhythm only he can hear.

You resume your previous line of thought, prodding at it as you would at a healing wound.

It doesn't feel like you're _settling_ for Dave. This isn't you getting a crush on the first person to ever show even the vaguest interest in you pitch. You're not losing your head over him just because he looks at you like you really exist.

*

You notice after your final molt, when your eye color filled in. Until then, things are different. You are good at avoiding injury, and even when you are cut, you hide it or quickly cover it up. Even if someone catches a glimpse of red, you don't let them get too good of a look, and the first thing to people's mind is rustblood, not mutant. Because rustblood is bad enough to justify hiding it. Rustblood is reason enough for the gray trim on your uniform.

But when your eyes fill in and the unnatural color becomes impossible to hide, you notice that other people's eyes slide over you and turn away quickly. You notice other trolls acting flustered and uncomfortable, like they are embarrassed to notice your existence. The new Condesce made culling mutants like you illegal (high functioning mutants, 'good' mutants, the kind that can work for the glory of the Empire and be thankful for the honor of being spat on at every turn), but that doesn't make you normal. You especially. Worse than a rustblood. Unnatural and ill-fitting, fallen off the hemospectrum.

You think all this during evening drills. Your footwork has improved, but your stance is too stiff, and in the past, this has earned you more than one screaming rant from the instructor.

This time, however, the instructor's glare passes over you, and onto the troll next to you, as if you've been instantly edited out of her mind. She doesn't scream, she doesn't rant. There's no 'what the fuck did I tell you about your form, Vantas', there's no 'goddammit, rustie, can't you follow simple instruction?' There is only a cold, dismissive fury.

You continue the drill, looking at a point in the distance, pretending you didn't notice her not noticing you. It's only a short while after your final molt, and you think you'll be able to live like this. You are wrong, but at the moment you truly believe this.

*

Yes, okay. Dave _sees_ you. You're well past pretending that kind of thing doesn't matter to you.

But he's also hot, he's amazing with a sword, and he's just that right amount of irreverent that makes him exciting and doesn't cross over into platonically annoying. If Dave were troll, he'd have more caliginous suitors than Gl'bgolyb has writhing tentacles, and you're assuming she has a fuckload of those. The fact that he's alien notwithstanding, Dave Strider is a catch.

Which just makes you wonder what the hell he's doing with you. He probably has no idea what's going on, and even though to a troll your intentions would be impossible to miss, you have no idea how a human would interpret the situation.

He has to know this was a date, right? How could anyone _not_ know? How could Dave not know, when he was the one who called it a date?

You think back, but you can't recall a single instance proving that Dave's intentions were even remotely romantic. Nothing to contradict the notion, either, but wishful thinking does not proof make.

You look at Dave. By the tilt of his head, he's also looking at you.

“What?” you say, folding your arms.

He kicks at your ankle—not hard enough to hurt, just a friendly tap—and warbles something. You frown and kick back.

“Yeah, I caught all of that,” you snort.

He laughs and hooks his foot around your ankle, but you tug it loose. You feel a smile threatening to appear on your face and tighten your jaw to keep it in.

“Is that the best you've got?” you huff.

In response, Dave grins wide enough to show his canines.

You spend the rest of the ride aggressively playing footsie.

*

You spend the entire way from the scuttlebus tower to the hotel nudging and shoving each other, and intermittently bursting into laughter. You're high on physical contact, more than you can remember having in sweeps, but you have no idea what Dave is chortling about. You're clearly better at this game than he is.

A single time, you accidentally put too much strength into one of your shoves and he loses his balance. But you catch him around the waist and straightened him up against your side, and even as you worry that you've actually hurt him without meaning to, he throws his arm over your shoulders and laughs. You hold him a little tighter, lingering with your arm around his waist. He headbutts you lightly in the temple, and you burst out laughing as well. You don't even know why anymore. Everything is so absurdly enjoyable right now.

The sun is out by the time you reach the hotel. It doesn't bother you too much, despite how careful you are to keep to your nocturnal schedule. You disentangle yourself from Dave, regretful that you have to part.

He grabs your forearm before you can get very far. He's standing on the first of the steps leading up to the hotel, putting him a few inches higher than you, so you have to look up at him.

You don't even get the opportunity to ask what he wants before he leans down and kisses you.

The whole thing is surreal and can't possibly be happening to you. Surely it's not your arms that go around Dave and cling to him so desperately. You're certain it's not you who returns the kiss. It stands to reason that some other lucky bastard is inexpertly pushing his maw against Dave's face in what appears to be an attempt at slowly turning his lips into a bloody pulp.

Okay, no, that's definitely you. Nobody else could act like as much of a needy, pathetic asshole as you.

You tone down the flailing, close your eyes and try again. Slowly and deliberately ( _not_ like you're trying to eat his face, seriously, what even was that earlier), you mold your mouth to his and match his movements.

Dave makes a thoughtful humming noise. His hand cradles the back of your head, fingernails scratching against your scalp just roughly enough to feel good. You cling just a little tighter, clenching his shirt in your fists. It feels a little too flushed, but that's fine, that's great, you don't even care. He's human and he won't know how wrong this is.

He pulls back and you open your eyes, dismayed at the interruption.

“Hey,” he says, “thank you for great date.”

Your jaw drops, and not only because he managed some half-decent Alternian this time.

He knew? All this time, he actually knew?

He smirks at you. Yeah, he definitely knew, the smug bastard.

You bite his chin. He yelps, but then he starts snickering. You want to pin him against a wall right now, but lacking that, you just pull him off the step that gives him the height advantage and put him on the ground. You're pleased to discover that he's actually a bit shorter than you.

“You can plan the next one,” you say, and begin kissing him again.

*

▯▯: I understand the date was a resounding success?

CG: UH. YEAH. YOU COULD SAY THAT.

CG: I JUST NEED TO KNOW. YOU TOLD DAVE I WAS TAKING HIM ON A DATE, DIDN'T YOU?

▯▯: Of course I did. I'm shocked you would even believe I would send my brother into such a delicate situation without giving him ample warning that he should brush his teeth and primp his hair.

CG: YEAH, BUT

▯▯: You were hoping for some plausible deniability in case the date went badly. If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence you tried?

CG: WELL, YEAH. I THOUGHT YOU PICKED UP ON THAT WHEN YOU WERE HELPING ME PLAN?

▯▯: Of course I did. I just made a judgment call. My call was that your judgment was clearly wrong.

CG: AND YOU UTTERLY FAILED TO MENTION THIS TO ME BEFOREHAND.

▯▯: Oh snap, I knew I'd forgotten something.

CG: YOU ARE FUCKING TERRIBLE.

CG: THANK YOU.

 


	5. Chapter 5

AT: sO I HEAR THE DATE, wAS A RESOUNDING SUCCESS,

CG: YOU KNOW, THAT'S THE EXACT PHRASE ROSE USED.

AT: rEALLY? }:D

CG: YES, REALLY. HAVE YOU CONTACTED ME JUST TO FLAUNT HOW DISGUSTINGLY PALE YOU AND YOUR MOIRAIL ARE?

AT: nO, tHAT WASN'T MY INTENTION, tHOUGH WE REALLY ARE, eXTREMELY OBNOXIOUS, aREN'T WE,,,

CG: YOU TWO MAKE MY BILEBLADDER TURN INSIDE-OUT JUST BY EXISTING.

AT: hAHA, tHANK YOU, tHAT'S VERY NICE OF YOU TO SAY,

CG: SO IS ROSE SETTLED AT YOUR PLACE?

AT: yES, sHE SAYS SHE LIKES MY HIVESUIT BETTER THAN THE HOTEL ROOM, eVEN THOUGH THAT SOUNDS IMPROBABLE, gIVEN HOW MANY MORE AMENITIES THE HOTEL HAS, cOMPARED TO MY LODGINGS,

AT: hOWEVER, tHE REASON I CONTACTED YOU, dOESN'T PERTAIN TO rOSE,

AT: aRE YOU BUSY, tONIGHT?

You pause for a moment. Your eyes flick to the tab open in the background of the chat window. You'd been searching through interspecies relationship advice columns, reading all the ones about troll/human couples. If anybody walked in and started questioning you about it, you'd point out very reasonably that it is perfectly logical of you to inform yourself about the common problems such couplings entail.

The truth is, you've been spending most of the night fantasizing about how your relationship with Dave would play out, using these advice columns as fodder. All the little things you'd do for each other, all the in-jokes, the wordless understanding; all the ways you'd irritate each other and how you'd overcome every issue to befall you.

You haven't put this much effort into daydreaming since long before you got conscripted, and it's left you drunk on self-indulgence and rendered you completely unproductive. You're behind on your reviewing schedule and your buffer of blog posts is slowly dwindling away. You're supposed to go to a premiere tonight, for some hyped-up romcom that you already have pegged as a steaming pile of overripe hoofbeast leavings.

CG: I HAVE STUFF TO DO. SOME OF US ARE SELF-EMPLOYED, YOU KNOW.

AT: dOESN'T THAT MEAN, yOU MAKE YOUR OWN SCHEDULE?

CG: IT ALSO MEANS THAT IF I DON'T STICK TO IT I'M THE ONE WHO HAS TO REAM MYSELF A NEW ONE.

CG: IF I DON'T CHURN OUT A STEADY STREAM OF RAGE VOMIT ON A DAILY BASIS TO KEEP THE ATTENTION OF THE EMPTY-PANNED LEGIONS OF PEONS WHO VISIT MY WEBSITE, THEY'RE GOING TO GO OFF AND FIND SOME OTHER DIPSHIT TO DO ALL THEIR CRITICAL THINKING FOR THEM.

CG: AND THEN HOW WILL I BE ABLE TO AFFORD THE GRUBCORN SO VITAL TO MY JOB PERFORMANCE?

AT: aH YES, tHE gRUBCORN, oF COURSE,

CG: WHAT DID YOU WANT?

AT: nOT ME, aCTUALLY,

AT: dAVE WANTED TO KNOW, iF YOU'RE FREE,

Oh. Well, if _Dave_ wants to, you're sure you can put off--

No, you tell yourself firmly. You can't let the novelty of a relationship go to your head. You have to stay strong, show some discipline.

Maybe Dave could come along with you at the movie--

Ugh, absolutely not. This movie will be terrible. You're considering going in disguise, because you don't even want strangers to see you watching it, much less someone whose opinion you actually care about.

CG: YOU CAN TELL HIM I'M FREE TOMORROW NIGHT.

CG: AND IF HE HAS A PROBLEM WITH THAT, HE'S FREE TO COME DOWN AND HASH THINGS OUT WITH ME PERSONALLY. HE CAN EVEN BRING HIS SWORD.

AT: tHAT'S, uH, a PRETTY EMBARRASSING MESSAGE, tO HAVE TO PASS ON,

CG: UGH, I KNOW, BUT UNTIL ONE OF US EITHER LEARNS A NEW LANGUAGE OR SPONTANEOUSLY DEVELOPS THE ABILITY TO UNDERSTAND CALIGINOUS INTENT WITH A GLANCE, I'M REDUCED TO HAVING YOU AND ROSE AS MY FLIRTING LIAISONS.

CG: BY WHICH I MEAN MOSTLY YOU.

CG: FOR OBVIOUS REASONS.

AT: yES, i KNOW, sHE TENDS TO BE, pRETTY INTIMIDATING,

CG: I'M NOT INTIMIDATED.

AT: oKAY,

CG: I'M JUST BEING RESPECTFUL OF HER CULTURAL NORMS BY NOT INVOLVING HER TOO MUCH IN HER BROTHER'S RELATIONSHIP.

AT: aND WHICH CULTURAL NORMS, aRE YOU REFERRING TO, sPECIFICALLY,

CG: THE ONES I'M ASSUMING THAT EXIST AND PERTAIN TO THIS SITUATION.

CG: LOOK, GETTING BACK TO DAVE...

AT: i'M SURE HE WON'T MIND, a MILD DELAY,

AT: i'LL EXPLAIN THE SITUATION, tO HIM,

CG: I'M ACTUALLY A BIT SURPRISED YOU'RE STILL ON TALKING TERMS. I WOULD'VE THOUGHT AFTER HELPING ROSE BAIL ON HIS ASS HE'D BE RESENTFUL.

AT: oH, dAVE DOESN'T KNOW, aBOUT THAT,

AT: hE'S STILL UNDER THE IMPRESSION, tHAT rOSE IS STAYING AT THE HOTEL,

CG: YOU CAN'T POSSIBLY KEEP THIS UP FOR LONG.

AT: rOSE SAYS, sHE'S THINKING ABOUT STARTING A BETTING POOL,

AT: yOU SHOULD TELL HER, iF YOU WANT IN,

*

You return from the premiere and crank out a longwinded review detailing all the faults of the movie in excruciating detail, and then, either because of momentum or because you're nervous, you also write up three other posts you've been meaning to make for weeks. Your buffer doesn't look as alarmingly low as before, and you magnanimously decide to forgive Dave for ruining your work flow.

You go to sleep early and wake up even earlier, and at this point you have to admit that yes, you're kind of nervous.

It takes you about an hour to decide what to wear, because Dave invited you over to his hotel room, and you're not sure what this means, even if your imagination is running wild. After employing the full range of your social acumen and profound understanding of the nuances of kismesissitude, you decide, in the end, on wearing what you always wear anyway.

You arrive exactly ten minutes late; enough to mildly inconvenience a kismesis, but not enough to make them assume you're not coming. You don't think Dave really appreciates the effort you went through, but you're not going to half-ass it just because he's an ignorant human who doesn't understand your grand romantic gestures.

When Dave opens the door, wearing his usual stony expression, and he gives you an aloof nod in greeting, your bloodpusher does some medically worrisome things in your chest. You manage not to make a complete asshole of yourself and you return the nod. He steps aside and gestures for you to come in.

You do, and he closes the door behind you, but then he grabs you by the arm and swing you around and pulls you into a kiss. You growl a little—what the hell, doesn't he know how to kiss someone without yanking them around first? You hope this isn't going to be a _thing_ with him—but then you take advantage of his poor tactical foresight and push him until he's flat against the door.

He moans when you pin him in place with your body, and you kiss him, open-mouthed and graceless. You can't decide if this is the climax of a great romantic epic or the opening scene of a blackrom porno, but right now, both of those seem like equally appealing possibilities.

Dave's shades dig into the bridge of your nose, so you push them up on his head to get them out of your way. Dave voices a protest, but he forgets about it pretty quick once you find his mouth again.

He's not as soft and pliant as you expected, or at least not noticeable more so than a troll. You knead at his clothes like a meowbeast, too hesitant to sink your claws in properly, but you can feel the firmness of the muscles, in his back and in his arms and in his abdomen. Maybe not claws, because you're not so eager yet to test how resilient humans are (or maybe just not so eager to risk scaring him off), but you'd give anything just to have his bare skin under your palms, running your hands up and down his body--

You squeak in surprise, because while you were busy ruminating about Dave's body, Dave was busy getting a handful of your ass.

You give him a glare, but he smirks in return and presses his hand firmly against your backside, bringing your hips flush against his. You stare in his eyes, trying to discern where he's going with this, and he stares into yours right back. You remain motionless for a long moment, expecting something to happen.

But the moment passes, and neither one of you takes advantage of it, so you come apart, sheepish and flustered.

You don't know what you expected to happen, what was _supposed_ to happen, and so you're not sure which one of you was the coward.

*

He called you over to see a movie together.

Okay. Not really a kismesis date, and, you also suspect, not very imaginative by human standards, but you sit on the sofa and watch him set up his husktop on the low table, despite the fact that the hotel room comes supplied with its own entertainment center.

When the movie starts, you realize it's one of those crappy independent internet productions that humans enjoy making in their spare time, but at least it has Alternian subtitles.

The movie is fortunately somewhat interesting. The special effects are terrible and the sound has a disturbing muffled quality like most human recordings do to troll ears, but at the very least, the plot seems intriguing. It's not your usual fare, but then again, your usual fare is the excrement of Alternian cinema, so seeing something that's actually good is a nice change of pace.

As the character on screen is just installing some sort of reality-warping game on his computer, Dave scoots closer to you. He probably wants to get a better look at the screen, so you make room for him, even though it was his own boneheaded decision to playing the movie on the husktop.

You're only distantly aware of him putting his hand on your thigh—you are not his armrest, you think huffily—but when he turns his whole body towards yours and starts running his fingers through your hair, you finally start to suspect that there is some alien cultural subtext passing you by.

You turn to look at him. His head is turned towards the screen. You can't tell with his shades, but by all indications, his full attention is on the movie.

Okay, maybe you're imagining it. He might just be doing these things absent-mindedly. It could be some human idiosyncrasy. They're a lot more touchy-feely than trolls, maybe this is typical behavior for their species. Thinking back on the human couples you always see at movie theaters and their behavior, it adds up.

You continue watching the movie. The protagonist's house is being damaged by his mischievous co-player's antics. There's a particularly hilarious sequence with an ablution trap.

Dave's fingers creep lower, drawing patterns on the back of your neck. It tickles a bit, but the tips of his fingers are cool and pleasant against your skin.

You manage to space out completely and miss a chunk of the movie. Meteors are falling. There are fires everywhere. Dave's fingers have migrated to the side of your neck, just below your jaw. He can probably feel your pulse, fluttering under your skin.

You shouldn't be letting a kismesis touch you like this. It's too fast. It's too soon. You're supposed to-- to build respect, to prove that you're more valuable to them alive than dead. You shouldn't be feeling safe with him, even if he is human and you could probably take him in a fight. (Probably. Still just probably. There's a piece of paper with one square difference in your desk drawer, and you're not so sure what that proves, but it's important.)

Your eyes are fixed on the screen, but you're not seeing it anymore. Your mouth is dry, and you swallow.

Dave's fingers grow insistent, push on the side of your face until you turn it his way, and he kisses you. He's firm, but not aggressive, somewhere in a limbo between red and black that you've never considered exploring before. You think you might be vacillating on Dave, doing that thing you do where you can't keep your quadrants straight on a person, but it's not you; it's him. You promised yourself you wouldn't confuse your quadrants with anyone else like you did with Terezi, but Dave is doing it for you, and you're keeping your promise on a technicality.

He guides you to lay down on the sofa. You do, and he takes his shades off, putting them away on the table. He looks at you, alien red-on-white eyes finding yours, and pauses.

Oh fuck, you think. What if you make him feel just as happily messed up as he does you? Is _that_ what serendipity means? Can you have serendipity without quadrants?

You'll sort this later. You'll sort everything, just... later.

Right now, you look at Dave between half-lidded eyes and growl his name. It has the intended effect, judging by the way Dave inhales sharply and descends on you. This time he kisses you hungrily, a hand fisting in your hair and another in your shirt. You reciprocate, pressing claws through the back of his shirt until you reach skin. You dig into his flesh, hard enough to leave marks, even though they might only be tiny indents, but enough to mark, and that's what matters.

You have to adjust your positions, redistributing weight and limbs clumsily, and when he ends up straddling one of your legs, his knee brushes up between your legs. Your nook ripples in anticipation, and you whimper.

Dave's in no better shape either. He doesn't make any equally damning sounds, but his hips buck forward, pushing his groin against your thigh. This also jolts your nook. He changes his angle, finds one that suits him better, and continues grinding down on you.

Suddenly kissing isn't enough; you bite his lips, along his jaw, nip down the side of his neck ( _why is he letting you do this, it's too soon, why does he trust you so much_ ) and you pull aside Dave's collar and sink your teeth into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. It's not as hard as you'd bite a troll, but Dave moans. His hips keep moving, he keeps grinding down on your upper thigh, and he starts talking, a long string of unintelligible words melting into each other, incoherent even to your ears.

He slows down only to fumble with your belt. You think he's a bit confused at first, surely he means to do that to his own pants, it's not like you're too pan-addled to know how to take your own clothes off, but before you can think about how to make your objections known, he's already unbelted, unbuttoned and unzipped your pants.

You almost spring off the sofa and bounce into a wall when he just shoves a hand down your underwear, and it's not just surprise. He palms the entirely of your bulge sheath and even reaches all the way to your nook. Your back arches as you simultaneously try to push against his hand and away.

He freezes into place, watching you, and you let your head fall back. You don't want to tell him to stop, because it's good, but it's too good, it's overstimulating. You control your breathing, let the initial sensation die down, and then, when you're sure you have a lid on things, you roll your hips.

Dave takes this cue to start moving too. He rubs his palm against your bulge sheath, up and down, and this doesn't do much for you other than feel weird and new, but the tips of his fingers are curled against the entrance of your nook, and your nook is sopping wet and eager for any kind of attention right now, so that part feels great with a side dish of please more.

He starts moving his hips next, trying to push down against you in a rhythm that's compatible with the hand currently getting acquainted with your concupiscent parts. He's propped up on his elbow, and his face is screwed up in concentration, but you think you can afford distracting him a little, and you kiss him. His rhythm stutters.

“Never mind, you're terrible at multitasking,” you say as you break off the kiss.

He gives a short laugh, but then he begins babbling again, pressing his forehead down against your shoulder. You pet his hair, dazed, unsure how else to convey just how great he's doing.

You want to do something, make him feel just as good, but his ministrations are starting to get distracting. Your bulge twists inside, ready to unsheathe, but held inside by his hand. You don't know what'll happen if it isn't allowed to emerge. You'll have to get Dave to move his hand. Soon. In a minute.

His fingers dip into your nook. They're definitely wet, smeared with your red. Your hips buck up of their own accord. You whimper.

Your bulge tries to come out, but it pushes uselessly against Dave's hand. You can't tell if it hurts or feels amazing. It's all just blank sensation, overwhelming your nerve endings. But you reach a point where the pain plateaus, dull and distant, and there's a very distinct spark of pleasure which grows into a wildfire. Your bulge writhes inside, swollen and pressing against walls that were never meant to contain it like this, and your nook spasms like there is already something deep inside it.

You whine, tugging at Dave's shirt and hair, your hips twitching uncontrollably. You can feel your orgasm building up around the pressure of your sheathed bulge, radiating like pain, except it feels good instead.

Your hand goes down between your legs, pressing down hard against Dave's through the textile layer, harder, harder, yes, this isn't normal, this shouldn't feel so good, you're almost there, whatever 'there' is--

Then it overflows, filling up your body until every atom of your being is nothing but bliss.

Distantly, you can feel Dave stiffening against you and his babbling trailing off into a moan, and then he flops down on top of you, boneless and heavy.

His hand is still between your legs, but not moving. You think he might feel your nook twitch with aftershocks, but you aren't as mortified by this as you thought you'd be. At least you're thankful that you managed to clamp down your nook by reflex and didn't end up spilling genetic material all over the place like some fumbling wriggler at his first pail filling. Your underwear might be a lost cause, though.

You stay like that for a while, listening to each other panting with exertion. The movie is still going, but has long since lost its relevance.

Eventually, Dave will have to take his hand out. It will be bright red when he does, and he won't mind. Even you will barely feel bothered by it.

You think you doze off for a little while after having that thought. You sleep better than you ever have since you were a grub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, final chapter! Knew I'd get there eventually. (Not the final story in the series, though. I still have a few others planned.)


End file.
